


The Boss of Brooklyn

by wordywarrior



Series: The Boss of Brooklyn [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes-centric, F/M, M/M, Multi, Steve Feels, Steve Rogers Feels, Stucky - Freeform, marvel AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2020-10-06 21:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 38,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20513672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordywarrior/pseuds/wordywarrior
Summary: When it comes to being The Boss, James Buchanan “JB” Barnes rules with an iron fist. For him, there’s no room for sentiment, and certainly no time for distraction, even if it is in the form of an old flame. Steve Rogers had bowed out of the life a long time ago, but a twist of fate brings him right back into the fold, and face-to-face with a man he once loved. When a game of cat and mouse turns into a matter of life and death, both will be forced to decide whether they’ll be loyal to the business, or faithful to each other.





	1. Prologue: Convergent

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Note: Bucky Barnes Mob Boss AU. Stucky.  
Warnings: Language, violence, drug use, alcohol, smoking, explicit sexual content, illegal activities.

_ ** ** _

_ **Prologue: Convergent** _

Steve stared down at the paperwork in his hands and snorted.

In this business, carnage was common because violence was both first _and_ second nature, which was the reason why everything was run with military-like precision. Contracts first. Fists later.

Either way, blood was spilled.

The mob had never been taken down; they’d just adapted and evolved, which was how they survived. They were tacticians, businessmen, and politicians now, and that meant they were more powerful, influential, and effective than they ever were before. That’s how they ensured nobody stepped out of line or did anything without the long-play in mind and an end game in sight.

The Families, the traditions, the rules, the pecking order – they _existed_ for a _reason_.

There was no such thing as an act of kindness; no greater good; no decency. Decisions weren’t made based on sentiment. Subterfuge had been woven and bred and beaten into their DNA. Who gave a shit about love, friendship, or doing the right thing when there was an empire to be maintained and money to be made?

He knew this went much deeper, was more than just optics, but after everything – the lies, the games, the bloodshed, and getting pulled back into something he never, ever wanted to be part of…

“Don’t mistake this for anything other than what it is.”

“Then, why?” Steve demanded lowly. **_“Why did you do it?”_**

“Because you’re mine,” Bucky asserted as he polished off his drink. “And I don’t let people fuck with what’s mine.”

Steve closed his eyes and shook his head. Those words would have made him drop to his knees five years ago, but now? Now, those words didn’t mean shit to him, because they didn’t come from a place where statements like that _should_ come from. It wasn’t primal instinct, passion, or hell, even _affection_ that made him say it.

The man sitting across from him wasn’t Bucky anymore – he was JB – _boss_ of bosses.

And this was just business.

He nodded his head toward the contract, “You said you were ready. So, **_show me._** **_Prove that you can handle me._**”

“No,” Steve bit out as he tossed the paperwork down on the desk and got to his feet. “Not this way. _Not_ like this – not now, not _ever_.”

Bucky stood up, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he retorted. “And on top of that – go fuck yourself.”

When the gun was unholstered, Steve didn’t even flinch; instead, he made himself an easy target, extended his arms, and tauntingly jutted his chin. 

“We’re not friends and I sure as hell _do not_ belong to you. So, come on, JB, do it – pull the trigger.”

Bucky’s three-piece suit, Steve’s faded jeans, and two pairs of unflinching, narrowed blue eyes. An opus of bitterness; a symphony of raging regret; a sonata of past sorrows; a melody of carnality atop silk sheets. The _tick, tick, tick_ of the miniature grandfather clock on the desk and a hiss as the air conditioner kicked on. The faint scent of cigars from a previous sit down mixed with a hint of bourbon.

“I think you should reconsider the offer,” Bucky equivocated. “And how you speak to me. I’m not a man to be trifled with.”

“If you were any kind of man at all, you wouldn’t have even put that piece of shit contract in front of me,” he fumed. “It’s an insult and you know it.”

“You never could separate business from pleasure.”

Steve pressed his lips together and swallowed hard. It was a sucker punch and he refused to react to it. With nothing more to say, he headed for the door, but before he left, he paused at the threshold. If he walked out, there would be no turning back, but before he resigned himself to that cold fate, Steve looked over his shoulder at Bucky one, final time.

“You’re right, I never could separate it,” he acknowledged quietly. “But at least I would’ve put _you_ first.”

What the slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression on Bucky’s face meant, Steve would never know, because with those parting words, he opened the door, and walked out.


	2. Chapter 1: New Blood, Old Flame

_ **Chapter 1: New Blood, Old Flame** _

_Many Months Earlier…_

The greed, the thirst, and the struggle – it was the ultimate, unholy trinity, and the Families lived by it.

They all died by it, too.

Bucky offered condolences he didn’t feel because that was his duty. After all, they’d put a lot of money into the dearly departed. Him, the wife, the house, the Golden Retriever – they hadn’t just _looked_ the part. Their pedigree, educations, and backgrounds had been impeccable, they’d photographed and interviewed _so_ _well_, and the polling numbers had been more than favorable.

The young senator in the coffin could’ve eventually been President of the United States, but alas, he’d gotten greedy. He’d lost sight of the bigger picture, held out his grasping hand one too many times, and when the Families admonished him and rapped his knuckles, he’d broken the cardinal rule.

He’d threatened to talk and they’d responded accordingly.

After Bucky showed feigned deference to both the corpse and the grieving widow, he planted a small tracking and listening device on her car. The boys in blue and the coroner had ruled the death accidental, but the wife hadn’t been fooled, and though they’d given her more than enough money to keep her mouth shut, she’d been in love with her husband.

Bucky had been in the business long enough to know what loss could do to someone. Anger and righteous indignation _always_ supplanted sadness and self-preservation, and he knew just by the way she behaved at the funeral that she would go to the cops. However, given the high-profile nature of the situation, his gut instinct alone wouldn’t be enough reason for the Families to risk bloodying their hands again so soon.

This would require proof and he had a feeling he was about to get it. 

When he got back to his penthouse, Bucky immediately fired up the laptop, and plugged in a pair of headphones. Eyes glued to the screen, he held his breath; lines of text and code appeared, but in the less than a minute, they cleared, and revealed a location. A few moments later, the radio was turned down, a door open and shut, and as he’d predicted, she talked. 

“That you, JB?”

Bucky yanked the buds from his ears and slammed the laptop shut. He’d forgotten all about his latest bed warmer, and the sight of the naked man both aroused and annoyed him. Though Bucky didn’t normally double-dip with a one-night stand, violence and anger always got his blood pumping, and who he’d witnessed skulking around at the funeral had made him even hornier.

Steve Rogers had been out of the game for five years, and the last time Bucky had seen him, he’d been had a duffel bag of cash slung over his shoulder and two remarkably well-made fake identities in his hand. He’d begged Bucky to leave town with him; promised they could have a normal life; insisted things would be better.

Bucky had responded in what had now become his trademark fashion – he’d been cold, blunt, and cruel. He’d called Steve’s notions of escape a pipe dream and a fairy tale. In their world, a happy ending didn’t mean riding off into the sunset; for them, it meant _hopefully_ surviving long enough to retire, and _maybe_ getting to die with dignity. He’d rejected love because it meant nothing to him – Steve had meant nothing to him – and within seconds of those words being spoken, Steve had taken off.

If someone had asked him if he ever expected to see or hear from Steven Grant Rogers ever again, he would have emphatically said no. Nevertheless, Bucky _had_seen him, and it stirred up all those pesky emotions he thought he’d buried long ago.

Though Steve should’ve stood out, he hadn’t; he’d always had an _uncanny_ ability to camouflage himself when he wanted to, which meant he’d blended in seamlessly with the other black suits and ties, and managed to go unnoticed right up until the very end.

Their eyes had met through the sea of the griever’s tears and trembling handkerchiefs. A split-second glance was all it had taken for Bucky to understand why Steve had made an appearance. Somehow, he knew the man they’d put to rest, but unlike Bucky, he’d actually been there to pay his respects.

He’d blinked and Steve had disappeared right back into the crowd. It had only been a moment, yet somehow, even after so many years, Bucky had _felt_ it all the way down into his marrow, and he hated both himself and Steve for it.

All Bucky had to do was push back his chair and undo his pants. The man – whose name Bucky didn’t remember or even attempt to recall – immediately went to his knees, pulled his boxers down past his erection, and deep throated him in one go. The eyes that looked up at him were brown, but Bucky pictured them blue, and imagined the locks clenched in his fist were golden blond instead of black.

This was not the mouth he wanted to fuck, but it would do, and as soon Bucky reached the brink, he pulled the man away harshly by his hair. Quick retrieval of a condom and lube from the desk drawer and then, they were both down on their knees. The erection the man sported suggested he appreciated the rough handling, and Bucky barely had to prep him before he all but begged for it.

“Give me your cock, JB,” he pleaded.

“Just shut the fuck up,” Bucky snarled as he pushed his way inside.

It was merciless and the noises the man made were pornographic. If he hadn’t been fisting his own dick and pushing his ass up higher in a silent plea for more, Bucky would have thought he was overselling his pleasure, but it seemed the more brutal Bucky was, the more he enjoyed it.

Eyes screwed up tight and breathing hard, he listened as, “_JB! JB, oh, fuck, JB!”_ was called out again and again. It wasn’t the name he wanted to hear, who he was fucking most certainly _wasn’t_ the man he wanted to make scream and come for him, but when needs must…

The orgasm had been phenomenal, but only because he’d thought of Steve.

Disgusted with himself, Bucky told him to get dressed, and get out. He’d just finished cleaning up when the man appeared again, and though he didn’t say a word, he pointedly placed his card on the desk, and promptly left. As soon as he heard the front door shut, Bucky picked it up; apparently, his name had been David, and he practiced criminal law.

“Go fuckin’ figure,” he muttered as he dropped it into the trash

Laptop reopened and attention refocused, he listened to the playback, and knew what he had to do. An encrypted communication with all evidence included was sent, and within five minutes, the Families responded with approval to move forward. After Bucky assured them all he would take care of the matter personally, he erased the messages, and hit the showers.

Even though he practically vibrated with the need to address the matter immediately, he didn’t. The Families had chosen him to be their leader and that meant _occasionally_ allowing others to play in the sandbox. Bucky would need to extend a hand on this one and he already knew who his choice would be.

With a towel wrapped around his waist, Bucky stepped out of the bathroom and into the adjoining walk-in closet. The lights immediately illuminated the space and after he settled on the Armani, he dried off, and prepared to dress. He’d just selected a tie when his phone pinged, and when he glanced at the screen, he grinned.

“Speak of the devil,” he murmured as Natasha’s name popped up.

Her self-motivation was just one of the _many_ reasons why Bucky invited her to bring her shovel and pail, and he didn’t have to wait long before she replied with a time, location, and a demand for sustenance afterward. Since it cost him nothing to cater to Natasha’s bloodlust and whims, he agreed.

With dinner plans now in play, he switched up the wardrobe. Bucky went with black-on-black Dolce and Gabbana; powerful, but understated, and the tie-tac was a small sapphire. Though he preferred to conduct such business at a distance, Natasha liked to get up close and personal, which meant he needed to bring his best cutlery. Unsure of whether or not he’d want to go on the prowl afterward, he pocketed a few condoms as well, because it was always better to be safe than sorry.

A little over an hour later, he rolled to a stop under the awning at the _Four Seasons_just in time for Natasha to step out onto the sidewalk. A valet opened the door for her and once she was settled, they were on their way.

“I saw him,” she confessed quietly. “And if I saw him, that means you saw him, too.”

Bucky sighed and signaled to change lanes, “I haven’t decided what to do about it yet.” 

“If you plan to _resolve_ the problem, don’t do it yourself,” Natasha insisted. “Let me take care of it.”

It hadn’t been anything she hadn’t offered to do for him dozens of times before, yet, this time, her words made him swallow hard. The last time he’d ordered someone to be put down, he hadn’t felt a damn thing, but as Bucky merged off the highway, he couldn’t help but think it would be wrong for Natasha to be the one to do it. If that’s what it came down to, it would need to be him, because Steve wasn’t a man who could be caught unaware and wouldn’t let anyone else get close enough…

“So, the wife, too, huh?” Natasha muttered.

“You always said she was cagey,” Bucky remarked with a slight shrug.

“But we had plans for them. I didn’t _want_ to be right.”

He pulled into the driveway, parked, and killed the engine. His car and their faces were familiar, which meant they didn’t have to be discreet in their arrival, just in the execution and exit. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, retrieved the knife, and placed it into Natasha’s waiting palm.

“Oh, you brought my favorite one? You _really_ shouldn’t have.”

Bucky winked at her, “I know.”

Natasha hummed, slid the blade from the sheath, and opened the door, “Michael’s for dinner.”

“I’ll get us a table.”

The reservation had only taken a few minutes, and apparently, so had Natasha, because she returned almost as quickly as she’d left, but did not look at all satisfied.

“She’s in the wind,” she spat. “Closet empty, cash gone. She left in a hurry and made sure to leave her cell and everything else we could’ve used to track her behind.”

Bucky slammed his fist on the steering wheel, “Fuck!”

“It gets worse.”

“How?” he snarled. “How could it _possibly_ get worse?” 

Natasha handed him the wife’s cell, which had been left unlocked, with a video ready to be played. The first couple of seconds were silent, and then, Steve’s face came into view.

_“Tomorrow. Prospect Park. Three PM. Come alone.”_

The _or else_ was implied.


	3. Chapter 2: Nothing Personal

_ **Chapter 2: Nothing Personal** _

Steve watched with narrowed eyes as the woman behind the counter tongued a lollipop and denied knowing her boss’s whereabouts. He didn’t have time for bullshit, nor was he in the mood to be polite, and when she slurped and lied _again_, he snapped. 

“Go back there and tell him Steve Rogers is here,” he ordered. “Do it, _right fucking now_, or I will make your death look like an unfortunate choking accident.”

The woman must’ve sensed it wasn’t an idle threat because she immediately dropped the candy into the trash and ran for the office door. Her rapid knocking resulted in her being told to “_fuck off_,_”_ but the moment she stuttered his name, she was instructed to flip the sign, lock the front door, and get lost.

“Well, well, well,” Sam greeted. “Has the prodigal son _finally_ returned?”

Steve unzipped his jacket, retrieved an envelope from the inner-pocket, and tossed it onto the counter. When Sam broke the seal, a lot of green was revealed, and he motioned for Steve to follow him.

As soon as the hidden panel in the back room slid open, a dark, twisted zing of excitement shot up his spine. This life and the behavior it evoked – it should’ve bothered him, but it didn’t. Like no time had passed at all, Sam followed him around the room, duffel bag at the ready, and packed up his selections. When asked what all the hardware was for, Steve said personal protection, and shoved another envelope of money into Sam’s hand. 

“Steve, man, come on…”

“Take it. Call it an apology bonus.”

Sam handed over the bag and pocketed the cash, “He’s in charge now. You know that, right?”

Steve grunted in acknowledgement, but didn’t comment. He’d been in town less than a week and had already heard all about what the man had been up to over the last five years. When Steve had known him, he’d been Bucky, but now, he went by JB, and his former best friend was at the tippy-top of the proverbial food chain.

There were six Families – Barton, Maximoff, Odinson, Stark, Rogers, and Barnes – and all their ancestors had taken a turn at the helm at one time or another. He and Bucky had been raised from birth to own and run the city, but they hadn’t just grown up and come up together – they’d gone through _everything_ together. Puberty; initiation; coming out of the closet; bad breakups; first jobs; high school; college.

They’d even buried their first dead body _together_.

After graduation, Steve had a position lined up at a lucrative art gallery ripe for money laundering and weapons trafficking. Bucky threw himself in with the politicians and socialites, which provided ample opportunity for extortion and bribery. For nearly a decade, it had been simple, and it had made sense. They’d excelled; honed their skills; brought in more than enough money to appease. It hadn’t been perfect and they’d fucked up a few times, but no matter what, they’d always had each other’s backs.

Then, one night, Bucky got hurt during what was supposed to have been a routine job, and for Steve, it had changed everything…

_He’d met Derek at a gallery opening._

_They’d hit it off instantly; exchanged numbers; texted for over a week before finally going on a date. Derek was smart, flirtatious, down-to-earth, and so damn good looking. After their second date, Steve agreed to a nightcap, and followed Derek back to his place. The invitation had been a ploy they’d both been in on and they’d barely made it past the threshold._

_“I want you,” he panted as he reached for Steve’s belt._

_Steve groaned into Derek’s mouth, “You know I have a minimum three-date rule.”_

_“Which you know I find archaically sexy.”_

_“I really should go.”_

_“I really don’t want you to.”_

_Self-restraint was all well and good, but after such a long dry spell, it was difficult to stick to principle. It also didn’t help that Derek’s hands had found their way beneath his shirt and his mouth had latched onto a particular spot on Steve’s neck that really drove him crazy. He’d been seconds away from asking where the bedroom was when his cellphone rang, and the sound of Bucky’s ringtone brought him up short._

_He knew Steve was on a date, but if Bucky was calling, it was important, and that meant he needed to answer. He apologized to Derek and retrieved his phone from his pocket._

_“My best friend – he’s just checking in on me,” Steve explained._

_“I completely understand and will make myself scarce,” he replied. “Just be sure to tell him how hot you think I am and that I’m not a serial killer, alright?”_

_Steve just smirked, and as soon as Derek was out of sight and earshot, he accepted the call. He’d been poised to tell Bucky his timing, per usual, was terrible, but the strained voice that rattled out his name killed both his arousal and his humor. Something had gone wrong he and didn’t hesitate – didn’t even tell Derek he was leaving – he just ran out the door, and got into his car. Bucky only managed to give him a street name before he started wheezing._

_“I’m on my way,” Steve told him. “Just hang on. I’m comin’ for you, Buck.”_

He couldn’t quite recall where exactly where he’d found Bucky, but he distinctly remembered the blood, and how it had looked as it trickled down his chin and spread all over the pavement. His pale face and cold hands; the absolute terror Steve had felt when he couldn’t get his best friend to wake up; the rage, horror, and regret; the frantic drive to the hospital; the nerve-wracking wait. 

The Families made a show of support, but their concern for Bucky’s actual well-being had been feigned at best. Bucky had become a popular man, was well-liked in the territories he ran, and was one of the biggest earners they had. If they lost him, business would suffer, and that’s all they cared about.

While they were preoccupied with appearances, retaliation, and continued cash flow, Steve was losing his mind, because the only man he’d _ever_ loved was hanging on by a thread. When they weighed Bucky’s chances of survival against the consequences of retribution, he knew they had to get out.

Bucky lived and recovered; in fact, he’d bounced back faster and better than anyone expected him to, and the fact that he carried on like a good, little soldier had pissed Steve off. The awkward conversation they had about it turned into a heated argument, and it wasn’t until they’d exchanged blows and Bucky had put Steve in a chokehold that he broke.

He admitted how scared he’d been; that he was furious with the Families; he couldn’t stand the thought of him being hurt again; he’d been in love with him since they were kids; couldn’t imagine life without him. Like a sinner who confessed to a priest, the multitude of iniquities spilled and spilled, but he knew there’d be no absolution – not in this lifetime, at least.

Steve hadn’t just blurred the boundaries of their friendship; he’d completely crossed the line. It could’ve been his admission, Bucky’s brush with death, or the fact they were just two, fucked up men with a lot of baggage – whatever it was, it shifted things between them. Bucky hadn’t commented on anything Steve had told him, but he’d _definitely_ reacted. Instead of being restrained with malice, Steve found himself trapped by passion, and no words had been needed for that.

It had meant something to Steve, but for Bucky, it had been nothing more than a pity fuck…

“You know you can’t hide from him.”

He tore himself away from the bitter musings and looked at Sam, “Who says I’m hiding?”

“He’ll go right for your throat.”

“Careful, Sam, or I’ll start to think you actually care what happens to me.”

“You know I always liked you best.”

Steve rolled his eyes and shouldered the bag, “And on that note.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam muttered as they exited the back room.

He took a different route back to the car, but with each step, the sensation of being followed intensified. When he reached the vehicle, he put the bag in the front passenger seat, shut the door, and slowly turned around. A few moments later, Natasha stepped into the alley, and her appearance meant there would be no meeting in Prospect Park.

“Rogers,” she greeted quietly.

“Romanoff,” he replied back.

Natasha took another step forward, “This isn’t personal.”

Steve nodded once, “I know.”

When presented with a difficult decision, the Families either discussed it, ignored it, or threw money at it. They hadn’t invited him for a sit-down, let alone attempted to bribe him, and he knew they wouldn’t have taken him down in public, which meant it wasn’t a fully planned, sanctioned hit.

Bucky would’ve backed down or at the very least done it himself.

JB had pulled rank and sent someone else to do his dirty work. 

“Just make it quick,” he told her.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, “I will.”

Steve showed her his empty hands and it lulled her into a false sense of security. She reached for her weapon and he allowed her to. Then, without reluctance or mercy, used her own tactics against her.

An abrupt intake of breath; a sudden cough; a low groan of pain.

The retractable wrist blade had slipped right between her ribs and punctured a lung.

Steve withdrew the knife and watched as Natasha slowly fell to her knees on the dirty, wet pavement. He found her phone in her pocket, thought about using it to call her an ambulance, but reconsidered. Instead, he demanded she unlock it, and after she did, he brought up good ol’ JB’s number.

“Is it done?” he asked by way of greeting.

“No,” Steve answered coldly. “But if you hurry, she might live.”


	4. Chapter 3: Sleight

_ **Chapter 3: Sleight** _

After surgery, Natasha was wheeled into a private room at NYP/Weill Cornell Medical Center, and once it had been made clear she would make a full recovery, Bucky called a meeting.

Five plastic chairs situated around the bed; every pair of eyes narrowed; each mind determined. Out of all the potential outcomes, none of them could have anticipated this, and it wasn’t just because Steve had chosen to defend himself. 

Natasha was dutiful, cautious, and extremely versatile. She’d carried more than her fair share of the water and had never shirked or shied away from any of the endless lists of tasks and responsibilities they’d given her. Over the years, she’d become the Queen in their metaphorical game of chess, was welcomed and respected in every territory, and was often the envoy, enforcer, and enticer. She was integral to the Families and invaluable to Bucky.

She’d also never been injured this badly before and that put them all on edge. 

“How did this happen?” Wanda inquired quietly.

Thor grunted, “We know how it happened.”

“We need to focus more on the why instead of the how,” Tony remarked.

Clint nodded in agreement, “If I’m being honest, I was glad to hear he’d returned, but now…”

As comptroller, Maximoff was most concerned with finances. Odinson, in his capacity as recruiter, was having trouble getting the fresh meat to settle down. Stark made sure law enforcement on their payroll turned a blind eye to Steve’s return, but this had drawn a lot of attention, and as a result, Barton had been forced to place a temporary hold on all incoming and outgoing product.

One thing they could all agree on was that the matter needed to be approached with even more caution. They still didn’t know the whereabouts of the deceased senator’s wife, nor the motivation behind Steve’s aiding in her escape. Bucky had assumed he’d returned for the funeral, but whether or not that was his primary reason for staying in town was unknown. Nevertheless, Bucky admitted he’d made the mess, and told them he would clean it up.

Clint was as tactful when he pointed out they’d tried it his way and it hadn’t gone well. When Bucky asked for suggestions, Thor threw out the obvious option of having someone else finish the job. Wanda alternatively asserted that if he intended to let Steve live, he needed to be placated. Tony decreed it was best to keep enemies close and that Bucky should simply seduce him. Clint recommended backing off and giving Steve a wide berth for the time being.

Bucky sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. While everyone continued to discuss how best to resolve the brewing conflict, he averted his attention to Natasha, who had woken up mid-way through the conversation. If anyone had the right to an opinion, it was her, and when he held up his hand for silence, everyone quieted down.

“Natasha?” Bucky prompted.

“Use him,” she rasped. “Make him an ally again.”

He’d never considered bringing Steve back into the fold, but it was the most practical way to resolve things. As the Families had never formally voted him out, he technically still had a seat at the table, and could return to it at any time. If Steve did return, things would change, but adjusting parameters and expectations wasn’t the issue.

Steve was a natural leader and would’ve been Boss had he not left. Loyalty and tribute were given and paid to the Families as a whole, but Steve inspired a level of fanaticism and devotion that Bucky just could not replicate. Though the title alone commanded respect, Bucky knew some considered him a placeholder; there were big players who’d been waiting for Steve to return, and if he was welcomed back, there would be a power shift. Even though Steve had never expressed a desire to run things, it was a mantle Bucky, if pressured, would be forced to let him have. 

War and peace, love and hate, progress and tradition – they were often two sides of the same coin, one that had been flipped many times over many generations. As head of the Families, it was left to Bucky whether or not to toss it in the air again, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. It was a gamble, a fifty-fifty chance, and he wasn’t the type of man who enjoyed playing the odds. He tried to look for a clear outcome, but the tide kept shifting, the waters were murky, and he couldn’t yet see in which direction the wind would blow.

“We tried the stick,” Wanda gently reminded him. “Let’s see if the carrot fares better. I’ll reach out.” 

Bucky inclined his head, “Very well.”

With the decision made, the others departed, but Bucky remained. He scooted his chair closer to the bed and when Natasha held out her hand, he took it. She’d been hooked up to an intravenous analgesia pump, but had yet to use the medicine, and that meant both her grip and her words were fierce.

“Whatever you do, _don’t_ fuck with him,” she warned. “I don’t know what Steve’s up to, but I can tell he’s changed, and he’s dangerous. You watch your six, you hear me?” 

“I’ll be as careful as I can be.”

“Have you said anything to the press?”

Bucky hummed noncommittally, “They believe it was an attempted robbery gone wrong.”

Natasha nodded, let go of his hand, and depressed the button to release the morphine, “Good. Now, go away – you got shit to do and I need rest.”

If anyone else had dismissed and dictated to him like that, Bucky would have broken their jaw, but since it came from Natasha, he just smiled. Even with a foot dangling over the grave, she still busted his balls, and because she was the only real and true friend he had, he didn’t fight her.

The drive back to the penthouse was a slow one because of traffic and when he finally pulled into the private parking garage, he was exhausted, irritated, and starved. The guard at the desk greeted him politely and Bucky waved back. It was a quick, smooth ascent to the top floor, and when the elevator doors parted, he stepped into the foyer, and was greeted by an unexpected albeit not entirely unwelcome visitor.

“In the span of twenty-four hours, you’ve botched a takedown _and_ you let me get the drop on you,” Bruce stated blithely. “Didn’t I tell you to change the security code after I installed the system?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and gestured toward the kitchen, “What do you have for me?”

Bruce tossed a folder onto the island’s marble countertop and gave him a rundown on Steve’s activities. The man was good at keeping a low profile, but he was able to piece together some of what Steve had been up to while he was away, and squeeze a bit of information out the people who’d been helping him stay under the radar since his return.

“Steve is independently wealthy now, but where the money came from is a mystery,” Bruce informed him. “If the olive branch Wanda plans to extend involves cash, it’ll be useless. He’s got holdings and properties both in this country and abroad. I can’t find any red flags and it all appears to be legit.”

Bucky furrowed his brow and opened the fridge, “And the plot thickens.”

“Sam admitted he stopped in, but wouldn’t give details on what was purchased,” Bruce explained as he accepted a beer with a nod of thanks. “But knowing what Wilson keeps in that back room, Rogers is probably armed to the teeth.” 

He flipped through the photos and the intel, “I want to know who else he’s visited and where he’s holed up. And find out where he’s hiding that fucking widow.” 

“He knows how to avoid being seen, so, it’s not an easy task. It’s going to take time and cash.”

“Money you can have,” Bucky told him as he headed for the living room.

Bruce followed and sipped his beer while Bucky keyed in the combination to the wall safe. Once it was opened, he collected a few stacks, and handed them over.

“Grease palms and keep digging,” Bucky insisted.

“Will do.”

If anyone could find a needle in a haystack, it was Bruce, and Bucky knew he could rely on him to get it done. The man was a genius with a mind that absorbed and retained information like a sponge. Publicly, he put his Ph.D. to good use via publications and giving lectures at various universities; privately, he helped the Families by being a shadow in the world of data collection. Skeletons in closets, economic shifts, voter mindsets, new product on the street, backroom deals, who was getting up to what behind closed doors – Bruce knew it all, and on the off chance he didn’t, he _always_ managed to find out. 

Bruce tucked the money away, tossed the bottle into the recycle bin, and as Bucky escorted him out, he strongly urged him to reset the alarm code. As soon as the door was shut, he did just that, and went back to the living room.

Exhausted down to his bones, he plopped down on the couch, loosened his tie, and kicked off his shoes. Cellphone in hand, he mulled over what to order for dinner, and after he decided on Italian, he closed his eyes, and settled back into the cushions. He must’ve nodded off for a moment, because when the doorbell rang, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered as he rushed for the door.

Bleary-eyed and absentminded, Bucky didn’t check to see if it was actually his food delivery, and within seconds, he was made to regret it.

He saw the fist that barreled toward his face, but wasn’t fast enough to block it or duck out of the way. Bucky was hit with such force that his head snapped back and he fell right down onto his ass.

Blood gushed from his mouth and nose and the copper-flavored taste rolled over his tongue and slid down his throat. There was only one person in the world who could ring his bell like that, and when he looked up from his prone position on the floor, he cursed.

“Hello, _JB_,” Steve deadpanned. “Mind if I come in?” 


	5. Chapter 4: Erstwhile

_ **Chapter 4: Erstwhile** _

__

** _Five Years Previously…_ **

_Bucky was shoved backward into the couch with such force that it tipped over. Going ass over teakettle jarred him, but he popped up quickly, and introduced both his fists to Steve’s ribs and kidneys._

_Steve gave as good as he got with a series of jabs and an uppercut, followed by a takedown that, between their combined weight, obliterated the coffee table, and broke the only lamp he owned._

_They grappled and rolled until Bucky was pancaked, but he recovered, and put Steve in a chokehold._

_“Fuckin’ **prick**,” Bucky snarled as he anchored his legs around Steve’s waist._

_Steve kicked his feet and threw his elbows, “Piece of **shit**.”_

_A bite to the forearm made Bucky yelp, and in response to Steve’s childish tactics, he squeezed harder, but Steve didn’t fight back. Bucky thought for a moment he’d lost consciousness, but when he loosened his grip, Steve sucked in a sharp breath, coughed, and rolled onto his side._

_While Steve busied himself with gulping down oxygen, Bucky got himself upright, and saw the aftermath of their bare-knuckled brawl scattered all over the apartment. The passing of the midnight train muffled their hard breathing, but it did nothing to smother the uneasiness between them._

_Bucky shouldn’t have survived what had been done to him, but he had, and all he wanted was for things to get back to normal. Steve, on the other hand, was still hung up on the fact that the Families had planned his funeral and divided up his territories. As soon as he’d gotten back on his feet, everything had gone back to the way it was, but it was still a bone of contention Steve was determined to gnaw at, and absolutely refused to let go of._

_He wasn’t sure who had thrown the first punch, and really, it didn’t matter; they’d had it out and he hoped it would be the end of things. They remained silent and still for a long time before he defiantly asked Steve if he was done breaking his balls and his shit. The question was supposed to diffuse the tension, but it didn’t. If anything, it made it worse, because Steve let out a warning sound that prompted Bucky to brace himself for round two._

_Steve planted both fists into the floorboards and pushed himself up; it was a slow, unsteady rise, but when he got to his feet, he just hung his head, and pressed a hand to his ribs._

_“I love you,” he bit out between clenched teeth._

_Bucky sighed and stood up from the floor, “Steve, you know I love you too, man, but–”_

_“Buck, I’m **in love** with you – been in love with you ever since we were fuckin’ kids,” Steve confessed lowly. “And I know you don’t feel that way about me and that’s okay, but you almost… And I can’t…”_

_A pained, haunted expression crept across Steve’s face and Bucky knew exactly what images flashed in his mind because they were the same ones he saw in his sleep._

_Although Bucky had accepted his life choices and knew any day could be his last, he’d never had a death wish. He’d been ambushed, beaten to a bloody pulp, gutshot, and left for dead. He’d called Steve that night, not only because he’d wanted to live, but because on the off chance he didn’t, his was the last voice Bucky wanted to hear._

_Bucky cared for Steve more than anyone or anything, which was precisely the reason why they’d only ever been friends. He knew he didn’t have much of a soul left, but whatever little remained belonged to Steve, because their friendship – it was **uncommon** in their world. It was profound, probably the only pure thing he had left, and he didn’t want it tainted or destroyed. _

_Fucking was just fucking. Sex was just sex._

_But love?_

_Love messed everything up because it opened a door to a whole new world of pain. It could be twisted and used as a weapon against both of them, and Bucky couldn’t have that on his already weighted conscience. He’d seen it happen with others in the business. Some made it work, others couldn’t, and the devastation and inevitable havoc when it ended badly or violently wasn’t something he could handle._

_He felt it, but couldn’t reciprocate it, and Steve deserved more than half-measures._

_It was a brief moment of soundless, despondent vulnerability, and it disappeared just as quickly as it came. Between one blink and the next, Steve buttoned it up, and he pushed it down._

_Even though it could’ve waited until morning, Bucky took the lamp and coffee table to the dumpster. Steve got the broom and dustpan from the kitchen and swept the floor with eyes downcast and lips pressed together in a tight line. They both lifted the couch and put it back where it belonged. The cash Steve dropped on the counter far exceeded the value of the furniture, but Bucky didn’t want to start another argument, so, he kept his mouth shut._

_Steve made a beeline for the door, and the hinges squeaked a bit as he exited, but it was only shut for a few moments before it was opened back up again._

_“Forgot my coat,” he muttered. _

_If he’d been smart – if he’d been less selfish – he would have let Steve get his coat and go._

_But Bucky had always been a greedy fool. _

_As with all things in his life, when he wanted something, he took it, and when he stepped into Steve’s path and took his mouth, it wasn’t chaste or polite. Bucky didn’t wade in, he plundered, and Steve didn’t resist or refuse him. A rough bite to his lower lip elicited a gasp, and that was all the invitation Bucky needed to curl his tongue around Steve’s and deepen the kiss._

_It was a warm welcome made even hotter when Steve groaned and kissed him back. It was the kind of lip-lock that left no room for discussion or second-guessing, and it only made Bucky want more._

_Hands tangled in Steve’s hair, Bucky moved his mouth down his chin, to the underside of his jaw. The scent of his cologne, the heat of his skin, the thud of his pulse – it was all-consuming. Steve’s shirt was discarded first; it was nothing Bucky hadn’t seen before, but this time, the reveal made his mouth water. When he pulled his hoodie over his head, the first thing Steve did was run his fingertips over the scar tissue of his wounds, and the tenderness of his touch made Bucky gulp._

_It was unfamiliar territory for them both, but there was no hesitation. Hands and eyes and mouths wandered. Boots kicked off. Belts undone; pants and boxers shoved down; both of them unabashedly naked in the middle of the living room they’d nearly destroyed only minutes prior. _

_Bucky explored every inch of Steve’s flesh; from throat to groin, across every bump, and over each bruise. On his knees, he took Steve into his mouth; disappeared him down his throat; lifted his head; swallowed him again; cupped and fondled and laved. He was turned on because Steve was turned on, and the husky, needy, guttural noises Steve made were the most seductive sounds Bucky had ever heard._

_A tug to his hair and a snarled, “bedroom, now,” was followed up by a frantic shuffle, even more ardent kissing, and a tumble onto the mattress. Nightstand drawer yanked open; condom and lube retrieved; Bucky situated between Steve’s thighs. Slow, careful exploration that was just as imperative as it was arousing. It was too much, but nowhere near enough. _

_While Steve got on his hands and knees, Bucky tore open the condom, and rolled it on. They were both clamoring and desperate, but he waited in both anticipation and with uncharacteristic patience each time for Steve’s nod of approval before pressing further forward. Soon enough, he was right where he wanted to be, and where he always knew belonged._

_Bucky was cautious because it was new, overwhelming, heady, and too fucking good…_

_And it would never, ever happen again. _

_Bucky wanted Steve to come, not because he desired to rush, but because he desperately needed Steve to fall apart before he did. It was strange for him to urgently crave something he knew he couldn’t experience again, but he did, and he wanted to watch it happen._

_He wanted to remember it._

_Eyes wide open. One hand firmly wrapped around Steve’s kicking erection. The other in a white-knuckled grip on the headboard. Even, steady, deep, and then, deeper still. Soft, yellow-hued light from streetlamps that revealed sweat-slicked skin and worn-out cotton sheets. Nothing to stifle the creak of the bedsprings or the harshness of their breathing._

_It wasn’t that Steve said his name, but it was **how** he said it – in that baritone, assertive voice he used when he was knocking skulls and telling people what was what. It made Bucky feel as if he were being commanded, possessed, and called out at the same time. It was everything he’d been seeking, but nothing he could’ve prepared for._

_Bucky bit his lower lip, close his eyes, and pressed his forehead to the space between Steve’s shoulder blades. Steve wasn’t his first and wouldn’t be his last, but nevertheless, being connected to him – it made him feel like some sort of god damn virgin._

_It healed him. Saved him. Fulfilled him._

_It broke his fucking heart._

_They showered together afterward. Changed the sheets. Got beneath the blankets._

_Bucky had never kissed or touched another man without it either being foreplay or a prelude for another go around. He’d never granted anyone permission to share his bed for more than a few hours, let alone stay overnight. He’d never experienced intimacy, and he knew he was a rat fucking bastard for taking advantage._

_Steve’s chest pressed to his back. His arm around his waist. Tangled legs and laced fingers and soft, warm skin. Bucky didn’t permit anyone to snuggle him, but he allowed Steve to._

_For one night – just for one night – he allowed it._

_He allowed himself to love._


	6. Chapter 5: Game

_ **Chapter 5: Game** _

__

“You look like shit.”

Bucky grunted, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and settled into the cushioned seat. The three-piece Tom Ford hid most of the injuries, but it definitely couldn’t distract from the half-healed bruises that still marred his face, and Thor’s blunt assessment, though wholly unnecessary, was rather apt.

“What can I get for you gentlemen?” their host asked politely.

While neither of them had time for dinner, the restaurant had closed temporarily for their meeting, and politeness dictated they at least have a drink. Within minutes, they were served, and the staff disappeared into the kitchen to give them privacy.

“Tell me what went down,” Thor prompted. “Then, tell me what you want me to do.”

Bucky did the same song and dance with him as he’d done with the others. He gave limited information; said not to make any moves without his permission; made it clear focus was to be on business and nothing else. Though the scotch he nursed during their conversation was undoubtedly top shelf, Bucky couldn’t really enjoy it. He’d been backed into a fucking corner, and though it had been two weeks since the confrontation, he still couldn’t shake the rage.

After Steve reintroduced himself with his fist, Bucky had been hauled to his feet, and dragged out of the penthouse. He was wrangled into the elevator and confronted by two masked men who thoroughly searched him from head to toe. Once Bucky had been relieved of both the knife strapped to his ankle and the gun at the small of his back, they’d bound his wrists in front of him, and put a black hood over his head. The only way he knew they’d taken him to the parking garage was because the elevator announced it, and as soon as they’d stepped out, he’d been forced into the back of a vehicle.

Bucky had heard the tires squeal as they went down and around and felt the slight bounce that indicated they’d hit the street. Then, there’d been a series of turns before a long stretch that suggested they’d gotten on the highway. He knew he should’ve kept his mouth shut, but he’d been too pissed off for rationality, and what had happened as a result still made him flinch… 

_As soon as the vehicle was parked, he was taken out of the backseat, and the hood was removed. Military-grade body armor; Magpul FMG-9; grenade and rocket launchers; computers; blueprints; at least a dozen henchmen – it was an impressive display and he knew Steve wanted him to see it. _

_His two babysitters muscled him over to a wooden chair, forced him to sit, and held him in place with a hand on each of his shoulders. It was some time before Steve rejoined them and that’s when Bucky made the mistake of opening his mouth. _

_“Can I get a fuckin’ rag or something?” he asked tartly as he tried to stem the blood that continued to leak from his nose. “Or do you want to throw your dick around some more?” _

_The person to his right punched him. The individual to his left joined in not long after. From there, they took turns. They moved from his face to his ribs and kidneys, which he was able to take like a champ, but a closed fist to the solar plexus stole his breath, and made him fall sideways out of the chair. _

_He was kicked and stomped repeatedly while he was down, and when Steve told them to stop, they didn’t obey. Seconds later, two shots fired in rapid succession, and instinct made Bucky cover his head and stomach to protect himself. When he finally peeked out from between his arms, he saw the bodies of his tormentors slumped in awkward, macabre positions. _

_Blood and bits of brain matter were splattered across the concrete, but nobody said anything; the corpses were simply taken away and he was put back in the chair. Moments later, another chair was brought over, and Steve sat down across from him._

_“I have a job to do,” he stated. “And you keep getting in my way.” _

_There wasn’t a single hint of malice in Steve’s voice, but there was an uncompromising finality to it, and the point was driven home via a gun’s safety being released. A muzzle was then promptly nestled at the base of his skull, and that’s when Bucky knew the time for posturing was over._

_The man he once called his best friend had always been calculating, but never quite so viciously brutal, and there was an unyielding, steely resolve about him that hadn’t been there before. Black clothing from head-to-toe; protective vest; knives strapped to each thigh; guns on either side of his waist. Broader through the chest; longer hair; a full beard. The combination of his physicality and his dress made him appear menacing, and his sheer ruthlessness meant Natasha had been right in her assessment. _

_Steve Rogers had **changed** and he was **dangerous**._

_Bucky carefully lifted his head and met his eyes, “Why am I here?” _

_“Because you’re the boss, JB, and it’s your job to keep the rest of the Families in line,” Steve stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “Or can you no longer manage that?” _

_The insinuation made Bucky sit up a little straighter, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he asked what precisely Steve wanted from him. When he remarked he didn’t want anything, and that Bucky had already done enough damage, his curiosity was piqued. Bucky didn’t have to ask if the senator’s death had put a dent in whatever plans he had, because Steve was quick to clarify on his own. _

_“We’re keeping the wife for insurance and will take care of her with the job is done. In the meantime, tell Bruce to stop meddling, and keep everyone else at bay. Understood?”_

_The gun was pressed harder into his flesh, which made him agree to the terms, but Steve had long ago stopped taking him at his word. It wasn’t until someone brought over a tablet and Bucky was shown live footage of Natasha in her hospital bed and Bruce giving a lecture that he submitted. _

_Steve nodded curtly and got to his feet, “We’re done. Now, get him the fuck out of my face.” _

“Can I bring you anything else?”

Pulled out of his musings, Bucky cleared his throat, and politely declined. Thor shook his head and the server took their empty glasses.

“Remind me what we’re to donate for the fund raiser next week?” he asked as he retrieved his wallet and laid cash out on the table. “I need to write the check beforehand so Wanda doesn’t slit my throat.”

“It’s a silent auction this year.”

Thor cursed lowly, “Means I have to be there for the whole damn thing…”

Bucky stood, buttoned his jacket, and clapped him on the shoulder, “Yes, you do. So, show up on time, bid on something decent, and write a check _before_ you get wasted, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered with a wry grin. “I hear ya’.”

After they both extended their gratitude to the restaurant’s owner, they shook hands, and went their separate ways. Bucky ran a few more errands downtown before he headed home. One glance at his inbox showed there were a million different things that required his attention, but for the moment, anything that didn’t pertain directly to business was put on the back burner. 

They hadn’t been able to keep a lid on it, and now, everyone knew Steve was back in town. They were aware of the botched take down, of what he’d done to Natasha, and how he’d ambushed The Boss. The whispers and rumors had already started and Bucky was fed up with being the punching bag.

He’d done as Steve dictated – he told the Families to mind their own and instructed Natasha and Bruce to stand down. With everyone else out of the line of fire, Bucky was finally able to focus, and the clarity brought forth all sorts of realizations.

He’d been distracted, lenient, far too indulgent, and those who worked for him and the Families had been allowed to run amuck for quite long enough. Mouths needed to be shut. Examples needed to be made. Dissention needed to be culled and it was easier to ensure cooperation when the consequences were dire. Deference was all well and good, but as Steve had demonstrated, fear was also a very powerful motivator, and could work just as well. 

In fact, sometimes, it worked even better.

Everyone could make an honest, unintentional mistake now and then – they were human, after all, and nobody was perfect. Such minor offenses would be met with an increase in dues and a hefty fine. Serious infractions would result in an immediate loss of territory, authority, and rank. The offender would be required to give restitution in whatever form Bucky saw fit, but they would never earn their way back into his or the Family’s good graces. 

Outright disrespect and disobedience – there were no second chances for that -- and anyone who wished to test him or provoke his wrath?

They’d be given a bullet and a shallow fucking grave.

Bucky had just finished putting together the missive when his cellphone rang. He recognized the number and when he answered, all he heard was a clipped, _“let me in,”_ and then, the line went dead. This time, he didn’t allow himself to be taken by surprise, and once he confirmed it was Natasha, he disengaged the alarm, and opened the door.

“We have work to do.”

She smirked and stepped over the threshold, “Ready whenever you are, Boss.” 


	7. Chapter 6: Set

_ **Chapter 6: Set** _

__

Life was all about choices and consequences. Every action or inaction inevitably resulted in an outcome that could be either favorable or disastrous, yet, even with ample preparation, mistakes could be made, and unforeseen pitfalls and blind spots were often the undoing of many well-planned things.

The Families usually got what they wanted because they tended to be prepared for every eventuality, but nobody, least of all Steve, could’ve foreseen how easily something as commonplace as violence and heartbreak could unravel it all. Bucky had been the hazard right outside his peripheral, but by the time it had been acknowledged, it had been too little, too late.

Even though Bucky had made himself perfectly clear – said he didn’t care, wouldn’t leave, and didn’t want him -- Steve had been unwilling to accept it. He tried again because he’d thought if anyone on the whole fucking planet was worth the risk, it was Bucky. Steve had gone to his apartment; climbed twelve flights of stairs; used the key he’d been always been welcome to utilize before.

The grunts and moans should’ve been enough of a warning.

There had been no commitment between them, and yet, seeing Bucky with another man hadn’t just hurt him – it had decimated and eviscerated him. It had been an incomparable, unbearable agony, and at that moment, Steve lost both the will to fight for the man he loved, and the patience to deal with the Family and business he’d been embroiled and embedded in for his entire life.

He’d left the United States. Traded concrete and smog for tropical islands resorts and hot sand. For about a year, he bounced around between Seychelles, Maldives, Ko Lipe, Bali, Fiji, and Tahiti. In the depths of the ocean, in the bottoms of bottles, and in the beds of other men – that was how he’d nursed his broken heart and it had been liberating.

Even when the money ran out, Steve still considered himself rather fortunate, because he’d wound up in Bermuda – home to banks, tax-avoiding businesses, and the obscenely rich. The islands were the ultimate luxury destination for the affluent, and they were always coming and going without caution or care. Amongst the pink beaches, coral reefs, and pastel-colored mansions was where he sharpened his skills and discovered being a thief was very lucrative. From St. George Town in the east to Somerset Village in the west, along the the coastline, and on secluded beaches – he survived and thrived on the absent-mindedness and vices of others, but as with all good things, that, too, eventually came to an end.

Steve had always gotten away clean with trinkets and cash, but his luck ran out when a man named Nick Fury, who he would later learn was the head of his own crime syndicate in the West Indies, had caught him red-handed. Death seemed a likely outcome given what Steve had taken and who he’d taken it from, but Fury had surprised him. The man somehow knew exactly who he was, and instead of being gutted on the spot, Nick asked if he wanted to stop being a petty pickpocket and earn some real money.

Fury was an infamous man and his stock and trade was the exchange, purchase, and sale of information. He had the power to ruin lives for generations, which was why people simultaneously respected him and were terrified of him. On the off chance someone stepped out of line or tried to cross him, they weren’t given a second chance – they were made to disappear and never mentioned again.

The world of espionage hadn’t been wholly unfamiliar to him, but with Fury’s crew, it hadn’t taken Steve long to realize he wasn’t as well-versed in the art as he’d originally thought. They were superiorly cultured, uncompromisingly loyal, and possessed a combination of qualities and skills that allowed them to easily maneuver their way in and out of damn near everything. While Steve was no slouch and nobody could ever accuse the Families of being ill-educated or under-funded, the circles they ran in, the jobs they did, the information they got their hands on, the amount of money they played around with…

It made the Families look like a bunch of amateurs.

Trade secrets, favors, bribes, real estate, yachts, money, jewels, art, stocks – white-collar payments for white-collar crime. For four years, Steve earned both his way and his keep, and had gotten a taste of an entirely different way of living. They were bad people who did bad things, and he _enjoyed _it because it was familiar, and for once, the playing field was even. Equal contribution meant an equal split of the take -- there was no cause for anyone to feel slighted and nobody got greedy.

Steve hadn’t left everything he’d ever known with the intention of falling into a different life of crime, but he had, and it was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him. Fury taught him what it meant to be a true tactician, politician, enforcer, and diplomat. He learned just how powerful of a weapon his mind could be; had been whipped into the best shape of his life, both mentally and physically; was pushed to be who he was, not what anyone thought he should be; and though he’d been a stranger, Fury and his crew had taken him in, dusted him off, and shook the cobwebs out of his head. In a strange, fucked up way, they’d made him stronger and more confident.

When the job in Brooklyn had been presented to him, Steve had been more than a little taken aback. Fury had quietly expanded into the United States, but the senator he had on the hook was also in bed with the Families, which meant the man was serving and benefitting from two masters, and that couldn’t be tolerated.

Both the senator and his wife were to attend an important fundraising event, where all the city’s heaviest hitters would be gathered in one room, and the plan was to use that connection to get intel. Everything hinged on the couple being in attendance, which would allow for one of their team to easily get inside and put them down afterward, but the senator’s untimely death and the wife’s subsequent blabbing to the police had brought everything to a grinding halt.

Everyone knew about Steve’s past connections, which should have been more than enough reason not to put him in, but they were confident he could see it the rest of the way through. Steve had cautioned them; told them they’d have a fight on their hands; that the Families were not easily deterred or distracted. He’d warned them it would be bloody and messy, but in the end, they’d voted to move forward.

He’d never planned to return to Brooklyn, and every decision he’d made since the day he left was designed to take him farther and farther away from it. Yet, somehow, Steve had been brought right back to the start, and the only thing he could focus on was the finish line. The job needed to get done – no matter the cost. They were in the home stretch and the details had been finalized. The hired hands had been paid and all loose ends had been tied up.

Before readying himself for the final stage, Steve retrieved his cellphone, and made a call.

“How are things progressing?” Nick answered.

“As well as can be expected.”

“And the other matter?”

“Taken care of,” Steve replied succinctly. “She wasn’t useful.”

“Don’t get yourself into a situation you can’t walk away from,” Fury insisted. “Get the job done and get your ass back here where you belong – understood?” 

“Understood.”

After agreeing to get in touch after he cleared customs, Fury signed off, and Steve headed to the hotel spa. The barber properly shortened his hair and trimmed his beard, but the man in the mirror reminded him too much of who he used to be, and while he didn’t much care for it, it was all part of the game.

Back up in his room, he showered, and continued to get ready. The evening’s battle dress consisted of a Burberry suit, highly-polished shoes, a vest, Glocks, a karambit, and a Ka-Bar. A notification from his phone indicated the car service he’d arranged was five minutes away, and once Steve ensured he had everything he needed for a quick getaway, he headed out.

The drive to Manhattan was a pain in the ass, not only because of traffic, but also because of the fundraiser. When Steve finally arrived at Tribeca 360, he was more than fashionably late, but still had time to get things done before his flight. The guard he’d paid off beforehand met him at the back entrance, which allowed him to bypass the metal detectors.

Glass of champagne in hand, he smoothed down his tie, and casually strolled along the outskirts of the carefully arranged tables. With a 360-degree view of the room, he was able to see downtown, historic Tribeca, and the Hudson River. Steve surveyed the auction display, where the master of ceremonies described the items up for bid, and observed most in attendance had their faces buried in their smartphones. While the bidding was being driven up, he maneuvered his way closer to the employee entrance on the north side. Another payoff, another easy entry, and he was in.

With the building’s floorplans memorized, Steve easily navigated his way through the maze of hallways until he reached the server room, and the tech who manned the area was absent as pre-arranged. After he double-checked the schematics on his phone, it was a small matter of a microchip and an activation code, and within seconds, security camera footage was erased and information was being siphoned.

Most people’s lives revolved around their phones, and now, every, single person connected to the network was feeding their personal data directly to Fury’s servers. When Steve received confirmation that the data was being transmitted, the countdown was on; the emergency exit door should’ve been propped open and the alarm deactivated, but when he reached it, it was shut, and the alarm was active. The microchip only allotted for five minutes of downtime on the cameras before they would automatically be turned back on, and he needed to get the hell out, or else risk being seen by security.

There were four other emergency exits, but he didn’t have time to check them, and that meant Steve was faced with two options: either go forward or retrace his steps. Both choices were less than desirable, but he knew if he triggered the alarm, the police would be called, and the surrounding area would most likely be shut down. Unwilling to risk being caught or hauled in for questioning, Steve made his way back, and managed to get out just before the timer on his phone indicated the cameras had gone live again.

Nearly everyone was on their feet, either drinking, dancing, or talking, which made it easier to blend in. Steve kept his head down and pretended to be focused on his phone as he weaved his way to the back entrance. Along the way, he pilfered a security badge, and used it to get through the side exit. He’d gotten a few steps away from the building and was headed toward his pick up vehicle when Bucky suddenly stepped out of an alleyway and right into his path.

Steve hesitated to reach for a weapon and was made to regret it.

A crackle and a buzz, followed by a paralyzing electric current that drove him to his knees. A sharp pinch, and then, the sting and side effects of a sedative as it was injected into his neck. He was dragged some distance before he was tossed into the trunk of an SUV, and the last thing Steve heard before he blacked out was a command that chilled him to the bone.

“Do what you want, but keep him alive,” Bucky instructed. “I want to take care of him myself.”


	8. Chapter 7: Match

_ **Chapter 7: Match** _

__

Bucky had Steve locked up in one of their off-the-books houses, and though a big obstacle had been put out of commission, he hadn’t been able to breathe any easier.

They’d taken more than liberal shots across the bow at each other, and all they had to show for the eyebrow-raising, tongue-wagging spectacle was a crumpled-up plane ticket and a well-worn passport. The cellphone would’ve given them more, but the prisoner stubbornly refused to give up the password, and the encryption had proved impossible to crack.

Eventually, Bucky had been forced to accept that no amount of persuasion, gentle or otherwise, could break a man whose loyalty was unwavering, and now, he had a choice to make: either pursue reconciliation, release him, or put forward a motion to vote him out.

None of the options satisfied, because to Bucky, forgiveness felt like submission, letting him go looked like weakness, and banishment after the fact appeared petulant. What he really wanted to do was wash his hands of all of it and put Steve down like a rabid dog, but given the optics, Bucky knew such drastic measures wouldn’t have been well-received.

Conducting business often meant walking a fine line between discipline and diplomacy. Bucky’s ruthlessness may have gotten those who answered to him to straighten up and fall in line, but a Boss who _always_ went for the jugular never stayed in power for long. Slitting Steve’s throat would give him peace of mind, but wouldn’t resolve the underlying problem, and therein lied the rub.

Since Steve had never once betrayed the Families confidences, his offenses, though frowned upon, had been viewed by the others as worthy of only a slap on the wrist. They wanted a conciliatory verdict and Bucky’s indecisiveness on the matter had been noticed.

With no end to the stalemate in sight, Natasha asked for permission to do what she did best – find the head of the snake and either cut it off or charm it. As there hadn’t been a suitable alternative, Bucky had granted her leave. 

She’d had nothing but the plane ticket and passport to go on, but nevertheless, Natasha returned victorious a month later, and brought with her a proxy of the man Steve had been working for. The Families finally got their answers, and in addition, the representative for Nick Fury put forward a lucrative proposal – one that would merge their businesses and expand everyone’s horizons.

The Families had an unshakable foothold in the States. Nick’s team dominated the overseas market. Bucky and Fury would remain the respective leaders of their groups, but share territory, jobs, and information. Consolidation ensured survival, allowed them to expand their powerbases, and best of all, opened up untapped revenue streams.

Bucky had rather liked the idea, mostly because the possibilities seemed endless, but they wanted Steve released, and for him to be de-facto “ambassador” to both groups. To them, Steve was the optimal “bridge,” as he had a keen insight into both operations, and could be trusted to see to the best interest of both parties. Bucky hadn’t liked it, but since the proposal hinged upon certain concessions, they’d come to an arrangement.

The Families agreed to release Steve into the custody of the proxy, but to make sure nobody got any bright ideas, one of the cops they had on their payroll slapped an ankle monitor on him that tracked his every move. Both sides agreed it would be removed after the deal was done, and The Families would accept Steve’s new role in the organization so long as it proved beneficial.

A handshake put a temporary seal on things, and forty-eight hours later, Fury and his associates touched down in New York. The first gathering had been nothing more than a gracious, overtly formal meet-and-greet, and though it was clear neither party trusted the other, they were all looking toward the future, and wanted to make the arrangement work.

They broke bread later that evening, and after several days of negotiation, managed to reach an agreement that satisfied everyone. It had taken their lawyers almost a week, but they finally finished drawing up the paperwork, and it awaited their signatures. 

When Bucky settled into bed the night before what would be the final sit down, he knew the next day would see him headed into uncharted territory, and the prospect both daunted and excited him. He didn’t open his eyes again until late afternoon, and if his cellphone hadn’t rung, he was sure he would have slept even longer.

Groggy and a bit disoriented, he rolled over, and retrieved his phone.

“Fury wants to chat before the dotted line is signed,” Natasha stated by way of greeting.

He sighed, tossed back the blankets, and got out of bed, “Should I be concerned?” 

“I don’t know,” she admitted quietly.

Bucky frowned, stepped into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. Speaking privately with a rival before a deal was done wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t exactly standard operating procedure, either, and if he refused, it could be misconstrued as an insult.

Unwilling to risk the payday, he set aside his apprehension, and told Natasha to make the arrangements. After he ended the call, Bucky discarded his boxers, and stepped beneath the spray. The hot water helped clear the bleariness, but it did little to settle his racing thoughts.

The last meet was supposed to take place later in the evening. A tenable location had been selected by a neutral third party and neither group would be given the address until an hour beforehand. Security, which had been carefully selected and pre-approved, would be on-hand to make sure nobody brought weapons or uninvited guests. Their attorneys would be present as witnesses, and though no court would ever see the paperwork, it would be legally binding nonetheless.

Everything had been painstakingly planned and he disliked this last-minute request for a chat. He was sure the impromptu discussion would not be a pleasant one, and a few hours later, he was proven right.

Fury showed up at his penthouse with both Steve and Natasha in tow. A stiff, albeit polite greeting; drinks served; seats taken on opposite sides of the dining room table. The tense silence was broken when Nick sat forward and pointed his index finger, first in Steve’s direction, and then, toward Bucky. 

“Is this going to be a problem?” he asked.

Bucky arched an eyebrow, “Excuse me?”

“We’re about to build a bridge and I don’t want anyone to be apprehensive about crossing it,” Fury went on bluntly. “So, I need to know – can I trust you both to let it go?”

The question and what it insinuated was an affront, but not wholly inappropriate, and if the situation had been reversed, Bucky would’ve wondered the same. After all, he and Steve weren’t just two men on the outs who had found themselves on opposing sides. They had a lifetime of unspoken, unaddressed issues between them, but Bucky had chosen to set it aside because it was what was best for the Families and for business. 

He’d traded personal animosity for profit, previously asserted the past would remain in the past, and conceded Steve was and would continue to be off-limits. He was poised to reiterate his position on the matter, but when he observed the cagey, hardened expression on Nick’s face, he suddenly understood why the man had wanted to meet at the eleventh hour. If Fury was inquiring about matters that had already put to rest, he wasn’t _really_ on board, and the reason was so glaringly obvious that Bucky felt rather stupid for not seeing it sooner.

He’d done his homework and knew Fury was not a sentimental man. He had a history of plugging potential leaks with bullets and did so ruthlessly without qualm. The fact that his organization had gone through so much trouble to secure Steve’s release, instead of seeing him silenced, meant he was far more valuable than Bucky originally thought. He knew the two men weren’t sleeping together, which ruled out love as a reason, and that left Bucky with only one, viable conclusion.

The idea of a peaceful union most likely had _not_ come from the man in charge; if that was the case, it meant Nick’s own people may have shifted their allegiance, and that explained why Steve hadn’t been present to provide his input during in their initial meetings. He’d been made a glorified babysitter because he had somehow threatened Nick’s authority; he knew too much, but was too well-liked to be eliminated, and therefore, needed to be kept out of sight and out of mind.

Given Steve’s propensity for honesty, he’d also likely disclosed that he and Bucky had been more than friends. Fury wanted them to be cordial, but didn’t want them to get too close, or rekindle the past. If they still had feelings for each other, or ever decided to rejoin forces, there would be a shift in the balance of power, and that would be disastrous for Fury. 

The word _coup_ sprang to mind and _fuck_ if it didn’t make Bucky hard just thinking about it…

“Well?” Nick prompted impatiently.

Pulled out of his thoughts, Bucky cleared his throat, and leveled Fury with a hard stare.

“Steve Rogers is a business associate and nothing more,” he asserted lowly. “And I will _not_ repeat myself on this matter ever again. Is that understood?”

Before Fury could offer up an agreement or speak another word, Bucky polished off his drink, pushed back his chair, and got to his feet. It was his way of silently declaring the conversation was over, and Fury had little choice but follow suit, or else risk being seen as issuing further insult.

Nick promptly stood and extended his hand, “I meant no disrespect.”

“I took no offense,” Bucky lied smoothly as they shook. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few more things to attend to before this evening. Natasha will see you out.”

They parted ways, and just after sunset, they met again for what Bucky hoped would be the final time. Everyone put pen to paper, Steve included, and right afterward, Fury and the rest of his crew promptly departed for the airport. With the deal done, the ankle monitor was removed, and though Steve had been invited to celebrate with the Families, he’d declined, and that hadn’t surprised Bucky in the slightest.

Good food, top-shelf booze, and a windfall the likes of which the Families had never seen before had erased any and all doubts. Bucky was congratulated for the accomplishment and many hours of partying and back-slapping passed before he made it home again. 

When he arrived back at the penthouse, Natasha was standing just outside his door, and had a bottle of Cristal in each hand. After the corks were popped, they settled down side-by-side on the couch, and enjoyed the obscenely expensive bubbly sans flutes.

“To a job well done,” Bucky toasted.

“I’ll drink to that,” Natasha sighed as she kicked off her heels,

“You need to take some time off,” he insisted. “And when you return, we’ll discuss the future.”

She giggled and shook her head, “The ink hasn’t even dried, and you’re already planning a takedown, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

“You play a dangerous game, Boss.”

Bucky chuckled and tapped the neck of his champagne bottle lightly against hers, “Yes, and in this game, it’s winner-take-_fuckin’_-all.”


	9. Chapter 8: The Fall

_ **Chapter 8: The Fall** _

_Four Months Later.._.

Slick walkways, sharply-pointed icicles, and bone-chilling temperatures.

The first gust of frost-bite-inducing wind had been a hard slap to the face, and even with all the seasonal-appropriate garb, Steve still couldn’t manage to keep warm. He hadn’t forgotten how brutal the weather could be, but he’d spent a long time in the tropics, and was struggling to readjust.

_Fuckin’ Brooklyn…_

Steve had run from it, tried to get the damn city out of his blood and bones, but both his former home and the past had come back to haunt him.

Even with all the careful calculation and planning, he’d gotten caught, and after a month of torture, he’d been forced to sign a “peace treaty.” The contracts had named him liaison for and ambassador to the Bosses, but in the months since pen had been put to paper, contact with the Families and Fury had been nonexistent.

They continued to keep him in the dark, and in addition to being kept out of the way, they’d voted to restrict access to the funds he’d amassed. Without money, he was trapped, but even if he managed to get out of New York, Steve knew he wouldn’t be able to get very far. They’d gone to great lengths to ensure he would stay put via confiscating his passport and cutting him off from all modes of transportation.

They’d shut him down and pushed him out, and as a result, life quickly became very lonely and mind-numbingly boring. The only person who still spoke to him was Sam, and with very little to do, the visits with his old buddy were consistent and helped keep him sane.

They always took turns choosing the meeting place, and for some insane reason, Sam suggested they get together at Old Glory Lookout. When Steve questioned it and remarked on the strangeness of the location, Sam left no room for argument and told him to, _“just fuckin’ be there.”_

The walk was a short, slippery one, but he managed to make it just before the agreed-upon time. Getting together at a place without central heating was bad enough, but when Sam approached cautiously and sans a good-natured attitude, Steve knew something was very wrong.

“There’s a lot of chatter on the streets,” he declared gravely. “And none of it’s good.”

Steve let out a low curse and listened intently as Sam continued to share the latest gossip. The rumors varied, but the most popular – and thereby most disturbing – was that Steve was gearing up to take both JB and Fury down, and had recruited Sam to help him achieve his goal. As a result, they were being surveilled, and even though there was no proof of treason, the Bosses were ready to shoot first, ask questions never.

“How can I be a threat when they’ve cut me off?” Steve bit out angrily. 

“I think you’ve forgotten how badly people wanted you to be Boss,” Sam reminded him. “And from what I’ve heard, Fury’s crew is itching to change allegiance.”

“I don’t have a death wish and I sure as hell don’t want to start a war.”

“It doesn’t matter what you want – or haven’t you figured that out yet?”

He snorted and stared out at the water, “Whatever, man. It’ll blow over.”

“I don’t think so,” Sam countered.

“Why?”

“Because they’ve redistributed long-held territories and keep hiking up dues. They press issues best left alone and rivalries put to rest years ago have started up again,” Sam ticked off in a matter-of-fact tone. “Hell, even the loyalists are chafing under the new regime.”

“Sounds like a fuckin’ powder keg just waiting to explode,” Steve sighed.

“And they think we’re gonna light the fuse,” Sam muttered.

Any further conversation was cut off by the sound of a revved engine and the screech of rubber against pavement. Bits of tree bark and leftover dead leaves suddenly spewed into the air and the series of shots were muzzled, incessant, and well-aimed.

Without hesitation, Sam threw himself forward, and the ice-encrusted sidewalk meant there was no stopping the fall. Steve hit the ground hard, Sam’s weight collapsed on top of him, and the force of both punched the air from his lungs.

Another hail of bullets. A car peeling away. Everything quiet again. 

With a knot in his stomach and a lump in his throat, Steve carefully rolled Sam onto his back, and one glance into his vacant eyes was all it took for Steve to know his friend was gone. 

Sam had jeopardized himself by befriending him and had risked his own standing by feeding him information. As a consequence, he’d gotten caught in the crossfire, and whether he liked it or not, Steve knew Sam’s death was just the beginning.

He’d been dubbed _persona non grata, _but someone out there had believed the rumors, and while there was a lot of unresolved animosity, Steve knew the Families would’ve never done sanctioned something so haphazard. It just wasn’t how they handled things. 

A despicable act fueled by greed; a complete disregard for innocent bystanders; a public execution to incite fear and reassert dominance. They were the hallmarks of Fury’s _modus operandi_, and while Steve may have escaped the first time, he knew Fury never left behind witnesses and would send someone along to tie up loose ends. 

Tears welled hot and fast, and right on the back of it came a wave of bitterness and regret. It was far too late for _should’ve, could’ve, would’ve_, and the chasm Steve had been teetering on the edge of for months had finally, wholly, and irrevocably engulfed him. 

There was only one person he could turn to, and even though everything inside him was screaming not to, he retrieved his phone, and made the call.

“What?” Bucky answered acerbically. 

Steve kept the explanation brief, and after a lengthy pause, Bucky dictated terms. 

“If I do this, you’ll owe me,” he snapped. “And I choose the manner in which I collect on your debt.”

Steve clenched his fist and swallowed hard. He should’ve known Bucky wouldn’t let death prevent him from getting his due. Sure, he would see the body collected, if only for the sake of appearances, but if Steve didn’t agree to his demands, Sam would be deemed as nothing more than collateral damage. There’d be no reprisal, never mind a proper burial, and while he hated giving Bucky _carte blanche _over the situation, Steve owed it to Sam and would see it through. 

“Do we have an agreement?” Bucky prompted impatiently.

He sighed with resignation, and as soon as he said the word _“yes,”_ the line went dead. Less than five minutes later, a crew arrived to retrieve Sam and clean up the scene, and a separate car came for him not long after.

Before he could meet and ingratiate to the Boss, he had to get cleaned up, which meant a quick pitstop back home. Though the hot water and change of clothes took care of the outward stains, nothing would wash away the blood on his hands and Steve knew he’d carry the shame and sorrow with him for the rest of his life.

Back in the car, the driver headed away from Bay Ridge and toward downtown Brooklyn. Steve had no illusions and the slow march toward the inevitable was accentuated by expensive Italian leather and tear-blurred cityscape. He knew whatever price Bucky exacted would obliterate what remained of his dignity, and the entire ride to the penthouse felt like one, long trip to the gates of hell.

He’d made a deal with the devil and selling his soul?

Well, that was just the cost of doing business.


	10. Chapter 9: On the Run

_ ** Chapter 9: On the Run ** _

Instead of sticking to terms, Nick Fury was going for a hostile takeover.

It was a breach of contract, but from a business standpoint, it was the smart play. Hell, Bucky planned to do the same thing in the future, but the situation had gone tits up before he got the chance to put his own plans in motion.

They’d all agreed to the terms of the treaty, but as soon as Fury got back to his home turf, he unexpectedly declared Steve wasn’t the right man to handle their combined interests, and refused to work with someone he “no longer deemed trustworthy.” The Families didn’t have an alternate person who knew both businesses, and without Steve as a diplomat and go-between, the truce became strained.

In in an effort to maintain order in Brooklyn, dues were increased, funds were redistributed, and territories were rearranged. Tightening both the reigns and the purse strings helped for a while, but when people learned trade suffered because an outsider was badmouthing one of their own, they made their displeasure known.

It didn’t take long for whispers of disapproval to turn into deafening roars of outright dissent. The nature of the business had changed, but the foundation and principles had remained the same. In their world, unsubstantiated accusations still brought out visceral impulses, and after Sam went down, the gloves came off. 

Bucky had Natasha and Bruce investigate and they’d both arrived at the same conclusion: Steve and Sam had been loyal and all roads led back to Fury. He’d been the origin of the treason rumors, was behind the unsanctioned hit, and wanted Steve cut out so he could wrest control and poach from their joint revenue streams.

The situation reached critical mass after the funeral. Sam had been in the ground less than an hour when another attempt was made. Steve had been ambushed and almost killed in the middle of his own living room, and not long after, Bucky learned the Families private homes had also been compromised.

Bucky knew it was only a matter of time before Fury tried again, and once the Families realized he was gunning for them all, everyone agreed to batten down the hatches and move to undisclosed, more secure locations.

The hotel suite he was holed up in offered privacy, security, and best of all, a well-stocked bar. Yet, even with the creature comforts, Bucky still felt feel like a caged animal. He _really_ needed to get his house in order, and so far, no easy solution had presented itself, and the booze wasn’t helping.

“If you want to take Fury out, you’re going to need to do it from the inside,” Natasha opined over FaceTime. “You need to turn his crew, and in order to get to them, you have to go through Steve.” 

“If he rallies Brooklyn _and_ manages to get Fury’s people on his side, allegiances will be divided, and there will be mutiny here and abroad,” Bucky argued. “I can’t fight a war on two fronts.”

“You’ve always been stubborn, but I never knew you could be so ignorant.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Natasha leveled him with a hard stare, “Steve’s calculating, but he’s stalwart. You’re alive because he’s still in love with you, and _that’s_ why he won’t ever betray you or try to oust you.”

Bucky sighed and poured himself another drink, “For the record, he’s not in love with me. And Steve may be steadfast, but he’s also unforgiving and prone to petulance.”

“Look, if you just apologize and set aside your ego, the two of you could–”

“My ego isn’t the problem,” he interjected. “And in case you’ve forgotten, his goon squad beat the shit out of me, and he left you for dead in an alley.”

“And in response, you had our guys torture him for a month. Then, you took away his choices, his money, and his freedom,” she retorted. “The time for posturing and tit-for-tat is over. If you don’t get Steve back on our side, our people won’t fight, Fury will bury us, and it will be your fault.”

Before Bucky could formulate a response, Natasha brusquely told him to, _“get his fucking shit together,” _and then, ended any further discussion of the matter by cutting off the call.

Partnering with Nick Fury had been a calculated risk, but Bucky could have never foreseen it going bad so quickly. The harsh, bitter truths Natasha voiced were difficult to face, but deep down, Bucky knew she was right. The wisest course of action would be to bring Steve back into the fold, but given everything that had happened, mending fences would be easier said than done.

Too exhausted to think about it anymore, Bucky texted his security detail, and let them know he was turning in for the night. He’d just started to undress when a response came through; thinking it was one of the men bidding him goodnight, he ignored it, but when his cell rang and one of the guards in the suit adjacent suddenly began pounding on the adjoining door, he knew something wasn’t right.

A rhythmic candace. Sharp, loud, repetitive snaps.

The sound was all too familiar and made the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck stand on end. Instinct and a flood of pure, high-octane adrenaline made him reach for his own weapon at the base of his spine. He could hear muffled, indistinct voices; see the doorknob being rattled; feel the grip of the gun against the palm of his hand; taste the fear and whiskey on his tongue.

Knowing he was next, he bolted for the exit, and looked through the peephole. When the hallway revealed itself to be empty, Bucky slipped the chain back, flipped the deadbolt, and opened the door. Both guards stationed just outside were down, and as he continued onward, the bodies kept piling up.

The culprit had taken them out one-by-one and managed to get into the suite next to his without raising any suspicion or alarm. Everyone had erred on the side of caution and the Families hadn’t revealed to each other or anyone else where they were hunkered down. If he was being targeted, it meant someone on the inside had sold him out.

A strange sound drew his attention away from his thoughts and back to the task at hand. When he approached the elevator, he saw the doors opening and closing, but a pair of legs sticking out from the inside prevented them from shutting all the way. Bucky didn’t know how many enemies there were or where they were all located, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

A flickering exit sign pointed toward the stairwell, and he hastily made a beeline for it. Twelve flights and another door saw him out of the hotel and onto the street. Without his phone, wallet, and keys, he had no way of reaching out to anyone or getting away quickly. Exposed, alone, and with the enemy on his tail, Bucky had no choice but to start walking.

Gun low and pressed to his thigh, he crossed the street, and made it about two blocks before a black SUV, headed fast in the opposite direction, suddenly pulled a U-turn right in the middle of traffic. There was absolutely no way to outrun a car, which meant he had little choice but to duck into the nearest alley.

Sweat pooled at the base of his spine and his pulse thudded in his ears, but he remained silent, and waited. The vehicle pulled right up to the sidewalk, but nobody got out. The tinted window on the front passenger side was lowered, which prompted him to ready his weapon.

Bucky was a hairsbreadth away from firing when the high beams were flashed and a familiar voice yelled his name. As he warily approached, the back door was thrown open; the interior lights came on and revealed Bruce riding shotgun, Natasha at the wheel, and none other than Steve Rogers in the seat behind her.

With the threat of death imminent, Bucky didn’t hesitate, and as soon as he was in, Natasha hit the gas, and drove like a bat out of hell.

“How did you know?” he asked.

Bruce turned around in his seat, “Ever since Sam was killed, I’ve been monitoring all communications, but there are a lot of phones and a lot of people. Fury managed to get to one of your guards. I just didn’t see it until it was too late.”

“And him?” he prompted, nodding his head toward Steve. “Why is he here?”

“Steve knows Fury’s playbook,” Natasha voiced. “He’s here to help.”

Bucky let out a sound of frustration, “You _shouldn’t_ have involved him.”

“You want me gone? Fine,” Steve mumbled lowly. “Pull the fuck over.”

Bruce shook his head frantically, “Bad idea.”

Natasha glanced in the rearview mirror, “You’re in no condition to be out on your own.”

When the vehicle entered a tunnel and the car’s interior was flooded with light, Bucky instantly understood why Bruce and Natasha didn’t want to dump Steve on the side of the road. The evidence of Nick Fury’s brutality was on every inch of visible skin, and the sight of Steve’s injuries made his gut twist.

One eye swollen shut and the other bloodshot. Brow and cheeks marred with stitched up cuts. Jaw extremely distended. Bruises on his arms that hadn’t even begun to heal. Steve was pale and sweating, and his harsh breathing indicated there was probably something even worse going on beneath the clothes. A lesser man wouldn’t have been able to withstand the agony, never mind be upright, but Steve wasn’t like most men.

Ram-rod stiff. Vacant countenance. The composure and comportment of a soldier.

He may have been bloodied, but Bucky knew not to mistake it for weakness or surrender, and the cold, deadly look in his eye suggested he wasn’t going to let a few cuts and bruises prevent him from getting even.

Everyone in Brooklyn was baying for blood, including Steve, and war was inevitable.

Nick Fury started it.

And Bucky had a sinking feeling Steve would be the one who finished it.


	11. Chapter 10: Behind Enemy Lines

_ **Chapter 10: Behind Enemy Lines** _

There had been too many close calls and Steve knew it was well past time to get out of Brooklyn.

Fury had managed to incite enough fear to scatter the Families, and in less than six months, he’d infiltrated their city and obliterated generations worth of hard work by using a combination of violence and propaganda. He’d essentially given them just enough rope to hang themselves with, and as a result, the Families had lost their authority and credibility, and would soon lose their livelihoods.

Blood had been spilled, and if they didn’t take the fight to Fury, he would continue to push in. If anyone resisted, bodies would continue to drop, and if it went on for much longer, people would either turncoat or tuck tail and run. It didn’t take much to convince Bruce and Natasha that they needed to go on the offensive, but _The Boss_, per usual, had not been so easily swayed.

Precious time was wasted because Bucky squabbled about everything and nothing. When Natasha pointed out that arguing and delaying would only serve to give Fury even more opportunity to do further damage, Bucky finally conceded, and agreed to get out of dodge for a while.

Once the decision was made, it was only a matter of retrieving their passports and booking a flight. They decided not to tell anyone where they were going, didn’t bother with luggage, replaced their cellphones with burners, and only used cash. It wasn’t until they were in the air and flying over the Atlantic that Steve felt like he could breathe again.

They arrived in Jamaica and got out of the airport without any problems. Since it was the only island in the West Indians Fury had yet to infiltrate, it was the best place to lay low, recuperate, and do some recon. Montego Bay, located on the north coast, was home to a major cruise ship port. As a popular tourist destination, there were plenty of resorts available to hide away in, and the crowds made it easier for them to blend in. 

While Bruce, Natasha, and Bucky focused on plans for taking back their city, Steve spent his time healing, and it took weeks for him to start feeling normal again. White-sand beaches; long, unobstructed stretches of ocean views; jerk food; Mento music; the freedom to go where he pleased; not having to look over his shoulder all the time; the kindness of the hotel staff – it all aided in both his mental and physical recovery, and when he felt ready, he set about making contact with the team he used to run with. 

It took a few days to get the word out, but with Bruce’s help, he managed to do it without drawing attention or raising suspicion. Steve chose a restaurant on Gloucester Avenue for the meet and the outdoor seating offered just enough privacy and ambient noise to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard. He selected a table that offered a full view of the street, and made sure to sit at the end so nobody could sneak up on him. The scent of pimento wood and authentic, local cuisine wafted through the air, and though he was the first to arrive, he wasn’t alone for long.

Maria Hill, Scott Lang, Carol Danvers, and James Rhodes were an A-list squad of thieves and baddies. They made it appear as if they were meeting up with Steve for dinner, calmly took their seats at the table, and perused the menu. They kept their features schooled, but their furtive glances suggested they were truly shocked to see him, and after the waitress served them their drinks and took their food orders, they immediately started talking.

“Nick said things went sideways in Brooklyn,” Scott voiced after taking a long pull on his beer.

“You pissed off the Families,” Maria stated bluntly over the rim of her wine glass. “Went rogue.”

Carol toyed with the umbrella in her drink, “Your actions got a man killed.”

Rhodey sat back swirled the whiskey in his tumbler, “And your Boss put you down for it.”

Their assertions, however misinformed, were not at all surprising. Fury was cunning and knew how to maneuver and coax people to his way of thinking. If he couldn’t connive, cajole, or get something credible to use as leverage, he resulted to wild accusations and downright lies. People in their line of work were hardwired to look for betrayal in all forms, and expect it to come from any direction, and because Nick was their leader, he was never second-guessed or questioned.

It was difficult for Steve to come to terms with the fact that someone he had worked side-by-side with for four years could so easily turn on him. He knew Nick wasn’t a good man, but then again, Steve himself wasn’t exactly a choirboy, and that probably explained why Fury had hooked and reeled him in so easily. Nick had saved his life. Gave him a job. Helped him and guided him when he was at his most vulnerable and least deserving. Perhaps he’d been naive, or maybe it was just a flaw in his character, but Steve had trusted him.

He believed they’d been friends.

“Steve, what the _hell_ is going on?” Carol prodded. “Why would he tell us you were dead when you’re clearly very much alive?”

Pulled out of his internal self-loathing, Steve just sighed, and shook his head. 

“Fury’s good at what he does,” he told them. “He sent me to Brooklyn and it went pear-shaped, but I swear to you, I _didn’t_ sabotage anything. It was all him.”

The declaration made everyone fall silent, and during the moment of quiet retrospection, servers arrived at their table with heaping plates of food. The grub was so good, they didn’t start speaking again until after the dishes were cleared and another round of drinks were delivered.

Maria furrowed her brow and crossed her arms over her chest, “He wanted a foothold in the States. When the Senator fell through, you were his ticket in.”

“Which means he set you up _and_ got you pushed out,” Rhodey said. “And since he doesn’t like to share, he’s decided to take it all.”

“And he hung me out to dry in the process,” Steve finished.

“So, what’s the next move?” Scott wondered.

Steve swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair, “Fury drew first blood and the Families aren’t going to let it slide. They have the numbers, and no matter the cost, they will fight to the last.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Carol asked.

“That despite your best efforts, war is coming,” Steve declared gravely. “And whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to pick a side.”

Rhodey held up his hands, “Look, what Fury did to you was bad, but he’s been good to me – to all of us. We did what we could for you, but none of us signed on for a fight.”

Steve sat forward and rested his forearms on the table, “Treaties don’t work unless all parties stick to the arrangement, and Fury has no intention of upholding his end of the bargain. It may not be your fight, but he will sure as hell make it your business.”

“For the sake of argument, let’s say we switched allegiances,” Scott countered. “How can you guarantee your Boss won’t do exactly what Fury did?”

“Yeah, what’s to stop him from taking all we got?” Rhodey inquired.

“Or putting bullets between our eyes?” Maria tacked on.

Their interrogation, ignorance, and constant referral to Bucky as his _“Boss” _lit his fuse. Unable to stop himself, Steve let out a sound of frustration, and slammed his fist down hard on the table.

“I should’ve better than to think any of you would step up,” he snapped sharply.

In the wake of his outburst, the restaurant fell quiet, and more than a few heads turned in their direction. Hands shaking and heart pounding, Steve apologized loud enough for all to hear, and once it was clear to everyone that a fight wasn’t going to break out, they returned to their meals. 

Carol cleared her throat and rubbed her arms, “We trust you. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t.”

Steve arched an eyebrow, “But?”

“We looked into James Barnes,” Scott confessed. “And we don’t do what he does.”

He snorted, reached into his pocket, and tossed some cash onto the table, “Yeah, you do. You just prefer not to get your hands dirty.”

“We do what we can do _avoid_ conflict,” Rhodey reminded him. “Your Boss doesn’t. In fact, he seems to enjoy mayhem and violence.”

“And I came up with him, so, you think we’re the same,” Steve fumed. “Because deep down, I’m still just a two-bit, gutter-rat thug like the rest of ‘em. So, fuck me, right?”

“Steve, you’re not being fair,” Maria argued.

“No, you want to know what’s not fair?” he snarled lowly as he got to his feet. “It’s not fair that one of my oldest friends is _dead_. It’s not _fair_ that I keep getting fucked over. It’s not fair that I keep getting _stabbed in the fucking back_. It’s not fair that I’m being left to shovel the shit that every, _goddamn_ one of you has dumped on me.”

Scott stood up, “Steve, come on, man. Let’s just talk about this.”

Without another word or backward glance, Steve stepped away from the table, and onto the street. Even though he could hear Maria and Carol call after him, he ignored them, and pushed onward. His rage carried him all the way out of the downtown area and back to the hotel, and as soon as the room’s door shut behind him, Steve reached for the chair tucked under the desk, lifted it above his head, and slammed it down as hard as he could onto the floor. 

The stream of expletives that flew out of his mouth was punctuated by the sound of snapping wood. The little chair didn’t stand much of a chance; it was pulverized in seconds, which prompted him to drop what remained, and send his fist sailing through the drywall. Steve was gearing up for another swing when the sliding door that connected to the private patio slid open.

“I take it your meeting didn’t go well?” Bucky taunted as he stepped inside.

Steve flipped him the bird, but said nothing.

“Well, as entertaining as your tantrum was to watch, you had better not continue,” he ordered. “If you do, someone will call security, and we don’t need that right now.”

“Thanks for the lecture,” he gritted out as he moved into the bathroom. “Now, fuck off.”

Steve waited until he heard the patio door shut before he stepped up to the sink. He cranked the water too hot, and the sting of it as it ran along his raw knuckles hurt like hell. When he glanced into the mirror, the reflection that stared back at him was all too familiar. Flushed face and hard-lined mouth; eyes full of something that bordered on madness; a wildness and furor that hadn’t been let loose since he was a too-angry, closeted, punk-ass kid.

It was _this_ face – _these feelings_ – that he’d been running from for so long. Steve had been on everyone’s side but his own and he was sick of it. Sick of the constant, nagging fear. Sick of being taken for a fool. Sick of the blame always being left at his feet. Sick of the orders, the lies, and the whole god-damn circus his life had turned into.

Disgusted with himself, he turned off the water, and dried his hands. He had every intention of packing what little he had and making a run for it, but when he stepped into the room, Bucky had returned, and that brought him up short.

Curtains drawn. Shoes lined up neatly by the dresser.

Box of condoms and a bottle of lube on the nightstand.

“Take off your clothes,” Bucky commanded lowly. “And get on the bed.”


	12. Chapter 11: Strange Bedfellows

_ **Chapter 11: Strange Bedfellows** _

Cold. Unforgiving. Powerful. Destructive.

A forward rush of water, and then, a retreat right back into the abyss.

Bucky had been listening to the waves crash on the shore for hours and the sound soothed him. He was always hurried; always moving; always restless. Like the ocean, he never slowed down, not for anyone or anything, but now, everything was all of a sudden just so…

_Quiet_.

Alone, beneath the silk sheets, under the cover of darkness – that was when Bucky allowed himself to think about all he’d sacrificed and just how little he had to show for it.

Back in the day, the plan had been straightforward. Grow up; get initiated; become integrated; climb the ladder; be the Boss. Like some sort of fucked up, five-step program, he’d had everything planned out, and it had all made sense.

Bucky had put everything into the business, because to him, being Boss was more than just a title. Being Boss encompassed everything about him and defined who he was. It was his responsibility to see that the Families and the people of Brooklyn thrived. It was his duty to protect what was theirs and ensure the business survived for the next generation.

He’d worked hard for it, bled for it, nearly died for it – and it was a burden he carried with pride.

What he hadn’t counted on – what he hadn’t prepared for – was Steve. In their line of work, true friendship was rare, but they’d beaten the odds. From childhood up into adulthood, they’d had each other’s backs, but when it came down to choosing between his future and his best friend, he’d decided to stay the course. 

But Bucky hadn’t just slept with Steve – he’d taken advantage of him and broken his heart. He’d all but forced him to run away and allowed him to think it was somehow his fault. Out of spite, he’d let his men lay hands on the only person who had ever given a damn about him. He’d used him for leverage to forward his own interests; allowed an outsider to besmirch and almost murder him. And like the self-centered bastard he was, he’d had the gall to get all pissed off when shit fell through.

Everything he’d spent his whole life working for was slipping through his fingers and he only had himself to blame. He knew there was only one person who could help him out of his self-made hell, and though it pained him to admit defeat, he’d decided to go to Steve and collect the debt.

It should’ve been a straight-forward conversation, but when he entered Steve’s room, he found the man completely unhinged. Bucky had been ready order Steve – a man he’d betrayed – to help him clean up the mess he’d made, but seeing him like that…

It had taken Bucky right back to that night. Back to that shitty, little apartment he’d had. Back to that moment when all the pieces had fit because for a moment, Steve had been his, and everything had felt so, so right. 

Eyes wilder and deeper than the Atlantic. Golden hair and tanned skin as warm as the sun. The wide expanse of shoulders; the tapered waist; the firm muscles that coiled. He’d seen the broken chair and bruised knuckles and lost control just like he’d had all those years ago…

* * *

_Instead of putting out the fire, Bucky poured gasoline on it, and it all went up in flames._

_He ripped Steve’s shirt. Sucked on his tongue. Palmed and stroked him through his jeans._

_The denim was rough, but the flesh beneath was hard and hot, and he wanted it. He wanted it with alarming desperation that had him forcing his hand past the waistband and beneath Steve’s boxers. The zipper dug painfully into his wrist, but he didn’t care; he didn’t give one, single, solitary fuck, because this was what he wanted and he was going to have it._

_He wasn’t sure who managed to work open the button and it didn’t matter. As soon as the pants were undone, Bucky pushed Steve down onto the bed, yanked the fabric that barred him past his hips, and dropped to his knees._

_Like a junkie who needed a fix, he didn’t hesitate. He ran the flat of his tongue around the tip and along the vein that pulsed beneath. He took Steve in and down until his nose brushed the base of him. He wanted to devour him; swallow him whole; feel the ache in his jaw; remember the smell and taste of it later._

_Steve’s erection throbbed and kicked in his mouth and seared Bucky from the inside. He needed more of it. He needed to scorch his palms with the memory of Steve’s thighs and ass tensing with every flutter of his tongue. He needed to singe his own flesh and he did so by using Steve’s body as a branding iron. Hot, hot, hot down his throat and across his lips and on the tips of his fingers and the back of his hands…_

_“Wait-wait-wait,” Steve chanted hoarsely. _

_Bucky lifted his head and glanced up at him, “I don’t want to stop. Do you?”_

_Steve’s guttural ‘no’ was all the permission he needed. He picked up where he left off and it didn’t take long for him to let go and surrender. Bucky kept his eyes fixated on him because he was unable to look at anything else. The line of Steve’s body, the way his jaw dropped, how his abs and fists and eyes clenched, how relief spread across his features when finally gave in to his release._

_The haze of pure, unadulterated lust hung over the room. It was as electric and lethal as lightening, and between one breath and the next, they were naked, and Steve was on his back atop of the cool, slippery sheets._

_The snap and creak of the lube’s lid. Foreplay atop of even more heady foreplay. The crinkle of foil as the condom wrapper was torn. Harsh breathing. Guts all twisted and knotted up. The scent of sex and sweat and dryer sheets and lemon furniture polish._

_Bucky wanted to take his time. He wanted it to be better than good, better than the first time, better than **any** time, because Steve had been hurt enough and **for fuck’s sake**, he just wanted to make it better. Just for a little while, he wanted to make it better._

_Bucky just wanted to feel better and be better. He wanted Steve to make him feel alive again._

_Steve furrowed his brow and gnawed on his bottom lip. His long, long lashes fluttered and sweat bloomed over his chest, and when Bucky was finally seated deep inside, he groaned and let out a ragged breath._

_He wasn’t sure why he did it, but he searched Steve’s gaze, and tried to find something other than just consent, but there was nothing. No tenderness, no semblance of warmth. Bucky knew he didn’t want anything more than to fuck and be fucked and it should’ve comforted him._

_But it didn’t._

_Steve’s eyes were lust-blown and his dick was hard again. He whined low in his throat, planted his feet, and thrust up. Bucky rolled and snapped his hips forward in response. He let Steve set the pace and it was a punishing one that clamored and threatened to send the headboard right through the fucking wall. _

_“This isn’t happening,” Steve panted. “And it doesn’t mean anything.”_

_Bucky grit his teeth and nodded, “Fine.” _

_Steve lifted his head from the pillow, kissed him hard, and nipped at his lower lip, “Say. It.”_

_“This isn’t happening,” Bucky gasped into his mouth. “And it doesn’t mean anything.”_

* * *

Bucky hadn’t meant to splinter apart – hadn’t meant to be so weak – but regardless of what either of them had said, it _had_ happened.

And it happened three more times. 

Once with Steve kneeled on the bed, his back pressed to his chest; the position had allowed Bucky to bury his face in his neck and fist him while he fucked him. He’d taken Steve bent over the mattress, body on full display and legs spread wide. Bucky had draped himself over him and planted his fists in the pillows for leverage. The final time, he had Steve straddled across his lap; right up close, mouth to mouth, hands everywhere, bodies straining and pounding and writhing…

Bucky couldn’t remember when he fell asleep, but when he woke, Steve was gone.

It had been three days since then. Natasha couldn’t reach him and Bruce couldn’t find him. They’d even tried to contact the old crew he ran with, but they hadn’t responded, and Bucky knew they couldn’t wait around any longer.

Out of the bed and into the shower. The pain, the regret, the self-pity, the memories, the sex – he washed it all down the drain – and when he emerged, it was with both eyes open and his mind refocused.

“It didn’t happen,” he said to himself in the mirror. “And it didn’t mean anything.”

It was time for him to stop wallowing. It was time for him to step it up and get his shit together. It was time for him to take control, put plans in motion, and show everyone who was Boss. 

It was time for him to take back Brooklyn.


	13. Chapter 12: Sabotage

_ **Chapter 12: Sabotage** _

Steve left before dawn with nothing but the clothes on his back and his dogeared passport.

When he hit the lobby, he expected to find it deserted, but instead, it was teeming with pissed-off guests. It was way too early for check-ins, which meant there was only a skeleton crew on hand to receive them, and the sole desk clerk was struggling to appease the mob and contain the situation. 

The weary travelers were ripe for the picking and Steve took advantage of the chaos. By the time he stepped out of the hotel, he’d pilfered a suitcase, a backpack, and a dozen wallets. Given the situation, the doorman was overly polite and very Johnny-on-the-spot, and within seconds, he was in a taxi and on his way to the airport.

While the driver was focused on the road, Steve sorted through what he’d lifted; anything useful was put into the backpack or pocketed, and whatever remained was discarded in the suitcase. When the cabbie pulled up to the curb, Steve paid the fare, and disembarked. The airport’s entrance was bustling, and the throng of early-morning travelers were laden down with luggage, which made it all too easy for him to leave the stolen suitcase behind in the crowd.

Steve checked the departure schedule and found the first available flight out was destined for Mexico City. When he got to the ticket counter, the agent told him he was just in time, and that there was still plenty of seating available. By the time he paid, got checked in, and made his way through security, they’d announced final boarding.

It had only taken forty-five minutes to escape, but this time, Steve didn’t feel relieved when the plane took off. Instead, he felt nauseated, and the sensation stayed with him long after the flight ended.

A pit-stop at a tourist trap for toiletries, over-priced snacks, and new clothes. Then, it was on to a cash-only, no-names, non-descript motel. Four walls, a bed, and heavy, garishly patterned curtains. A bedside lamp that flickered incessantly, a television that didn’t work, and an air conditioning unit that puttered out lukewarm air in unsteady intervals. It wasn’t fancy by any means, but the place was clean, which was more than he could say for himself.

He undressed in front of the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the bathroom door, and the fluorescent light revealed everything that had been kept under wraps. Friction-burned knees; thighs smattered with fingertip-shaped bruises; hickey-covered throat; a bite mark on the crook of his neck; scratches on his torso; tenderness in the softest, most intimate of places.

It _looked_ bad, but it _felt_ so _God-damn_ good. 

Half a fucking decade had passed. He should’ve been well and truly over it, but old habits were the hardest to break, and like an idiot, he did the _one thing_ he’d promised himself he would _never_ do again. Steve should’ve said no. He should’ve said no because he knew better. Damn it, _he knew better, _but he’d always wanted Bucky. He’d wanted him from the moment he understood what wanting someone actually meant, and he’d never stopped fucking _wanting_ him… 

The ache in his gut was compounded, because every time Steve took a breath, he could fucking _smell_ _him_. Many things had changed, but Bucky had worn the same cologne since high school, and the all-too-familiar scent _still_ clung to his own skin. Steve could still feel the voraciousness of their shared pleasure in his calves, at the small of his back, and in his arms. His groin and mouth and heart and conscience were still laden with everything they’d done, and all that blistering, bittersweetness was just too fucking much to carry.

A tiny shower stall, with a sheer curtain that kept clinging to his ass; travel-sized, off-brand soap and shampoo; a methodical cleansing that he knew would leave his skin pruned and bright red afterward. After Steve got out, he wrapped a towel around his waist, and brushed his teeth at the sink until his gums bled in protest. 

The clothes he’d traveled in went into the trash, and though he was exhausted down to his marrow, he could find no rest. Detoxing meant avoiding temptation, so, instead of obsessing over Bucky, he turned his mind toward Fury, and tried to mentally untangle the web.

What Steve couldn’t understand – what didn’t make any sense at all – was why Nick had even bothered coming to the table if his ultimate goal was to take Brooklyn for himself. Fury was a man who didn’t like to share or compromise, but he would do it if it served his bottom line. He was also a man of patience and strategy, and he rarely, if ever, missed a target. It just didn’t make sense…

Steve knew there had to be more going on, but he couldn’t see the bigger picture yet. He may have lost a battle in Jamaica, but that didn’t mean the war was over, and leaving had been much more than a tactical retreat. He knew what he needed to do – what it would take to get it done and make it right – and for the sake of what remained of his sanity, he had to go it alone.

The journey began two days later on the shores of Table Bay in Cape Town, South Africa. The economic hub lured in real estate moguls and sightseers, but Steve hadn’t been interested in Clifton Beach, African penguins, or the architectural heritage. What he’d needed was information and he knew a guy who owed him a favor.

From there, it was on to Tristan da Cunha; an island completely isolated from civilization that required a seven-day boat trip to reach. There were no restaurants or hotels, credit cards weren’t accepted, and while most of the inhabitants made their living through trade and farming, he knew of one resident who wasn’t who she appeared to be.

After that, it was on to the Caymans, followed by Cuba. Then, Steve headed back to the States, and hoped to find the final piece of the puzzle at a swanky beach house in San Juan, Puerto Rico.

“I heard you were dead,” Phil Coulson declared by way of greeting.

Steve smirked and stepped over the threshold, “Disappointed?”

“Impressed,” he countered. “And relieved.”

Steve knew there was no point in asking Phil to elaborate on his assertions. The man had been doing the whole espionage thing since before it became mainstream, and though he’d been in retirement for nearly a decade, he still had his finger on the pulse, and really enjoyed the build-up _before_ the show-and-tell. Phil was also the last person left who owed Steve a debt, but it took a tour of the house, lunch on the patio overlooking the ocean, and a lot of small-talk before he was able to bring up the reason for his visit.

“What can you tell me about the players in New York and in the West Indies?” Steve prompted. 

“I don’t participate,” Phil said as he tapped at a wireless keyboard that fired up the flatscreen on the wall. “But I do like to watch.”

A map of Brooklyn appeared and it displayed the hierarchy and territories of the Families over time. After that, it was the West Indies, which showcased how Fury had slowly taken it piece by piece. Next came the reports of all the backroom talks, underhanded deals, blood, death, and destruction. It wasn’t anything Steve didn’t already know, but what Phil brought up next made his blood run cold.

Steve had lied to Fury – said he’d tied up all loose ends – but he hadn’t. Since he knew the woman’s death would bring nothing but trouble, he’d let the dead Senator’s wife go free, and his act of mercy had been both a mistake and the catalyst. Sam’s flunky at the shop came up and he recognized the trademark lollipop. Subsequent pictures showed the two women had met dozens of times. After that, there was a video of Sam doing what he did best, which was very illegal, and they’d used the tape to blackmail him and force him to play along. 

The series of clips that followed showed Fury locked in a cell by himself, but eventually, another person had been thrown in with him. The man Steve saw was supposed to be in a graveyard back home, but the date and time stamp revealed Sam Wilson was above ground, and very much alive.

Bucky’s private security – all taken out by a lone bodyguard who had been bought off and tasked to kill his own Boss. The men who had ambushed Steve on the street, in his house, and who had also raided the Families homes -- they, too, had received similar instruction and payment. All in all, they’d had enough combined insider-knowledge to get it done, but someone who had both clout and cash had helped them execute their plans. 

Steve ran a hand over his beard and started to pace. He hadn’t been able to see clearly or think straight, but now, all the madness made sense. Keeping the peace meant Steve continued breathing and someone clearly hadn’t wanted that. When he’d gotten captured by the Families, Fury _should’ve_ issued a kill order; instead, he’d sent an unknown emissary to negotiate for peace, which meant the accord had actually been a contingency plan.

The agreement between the Bosses had been Fury’s way of trying to ensure Steve’s back was covered. The man had struck the bargain of a lifetime, but if half of what he’d learned was true, Nick’s hands hadn’t been on the steering wheel since the paperwork had been signed. Whoever had done this had managed to get him out of the way and that person now had full control over both the business and crew. What little protection Steve had been given had also been taken away, and somehow, they’d managed to convince the Families to cut him off completely.

Given everything Phil had shared, Steve knew someone had to have put things in motion _before_ he ever stepped foot in Brooklyn. Whoever it was had maneuvered the Senator and his wife into Fury’s orbit; ensured they got caught double-dipping with the Families; planned for the job he’d been sent to do to go sideways. The torture, the ousting, the rumors, the staging of Sam’s death – they’d been responsible for all of it.

Whoever was behind it hadn’t been trying to _prevent_ a war, they’d been _planning_ one all along…

“When all else fails, follow the money,” Steve bit out. “Who bankrolled this?”

Phil had saved the best for last, and when the picture and wire transfers were revealed, Steve put his fist through the screen. Everything inside him was screaming in protest, and he didn’t even realize Phil was still present until he’d been given a towel for his bloodied knuckles.

“Why? _Why_ would she do this?”

Phil shrugged slightly, “Fury’s getting up there in age and has been looking for a successor. I have a feeling Nick intended to hand the crown to you after the job in Brooklyn was done.”

He cursed and wrapped his hand, “I wouldn’t have accepted.”

“She couldn’t be sure you’d decline,” Phil asserted.

“Then, why even bother to play nice at all?” Steve snapped. “Why didn’t she just kill me when she had the chance?”

“Money, anger, fear, envy – they’re all powerful motivators. Sabotage takes time, but it’s less risky, and much cleaner. Killing you would’ve been easier, but you’ve got friends in high places, and it would’ve drawn too much attention.”

“Is anyone else involved?” 

“No. None of them had a hand in it or benefitted from it.”

Steve let out a ragged breath and stared at the destroyed television, “I don’t have it on me now, but I will send you money to replace it.”

Phil grinned and retrieved both a manila envelope and a tablet from the coffee table, “I thought you’d say that. I also figured you’d show up here eventually, so, let’s settle up, shall we?”

A thumbprint was all it took to bring the screen to life, and when Steve realized what Phil had done, the tightness in his chest spread right on up to his throat. He hadn’t just provided coordinates to Sam and Fury’s location -- he’d also somehow managed to unfreeze Steve’s money and assets, and had put safeguards in place to ensure they would never be taken from him again. The envelope contained two stacks of cash, a burner phone, a plane ticket, and a set of car keys.

Phil told him his chariot and the arsenal in the trunk awaited him, and since his flight departed in an hour, his driver was on standby to take him to the airport. The debt Phil owed had been paid in full, and though Steve was floored and overwhelmed, he still managed to thank him and shake his hand. 

“Give ‘em hell, Rogers,” Phil advised. “And when you’re done, get out, and don’t _ever_ look back.”


	14. Chapter 13: Settled Scores

_ **Chapter 13: Settled Scores** _

As soon as he got back to Brooklyn, Bucky put everyone to work.

The Families were stronger together, and their combination of intelligence and brute force had never failed them before. The business may have been nearly destroyed, but it wasn’t irreparable, and they were nothing if not resilient.

Everyone had expected the fight to come to them. They’d planned for it and were ready for it, but nothing could have prepared them for what actually happened.

The first indicator that something wasn’t right was the sudden, unexpected lift on an offshore account they’d frozen months ago. When Bruce and Wanda dug into it, they discovered the money taken had belonged to Steve, but neither of them could figure out who had gotten their hands on it, let alone where the money had gone. 

Then, a few days later, Natasha found an article in the newspaper. Page six, below the fold, buried beneath the rest of the international news – an abandoned warehouse in Barbados had been blown sky-high. The local authorities suspected foul play, but other than the remnants of what appeared to be shell casings, cages, and camera equipment, they had nothing to go on.

Things went quiet for about a week, but eventually, another bombshell dropped. Barton had been overseeing a product shipment when Sam Wilson was found passed out in the back of a cargo container. Though the man hadn’t eaten, bathed, or slept in days, the first thing he asked for was a meet with the Boss.

At three o’clock in the morning, in the back seat of an Escalade parked by the docks – that’s when Bucky learned Steve had uncovered the truth and discovered who had sold him out. Sam wasn’t able to tell them where Fury and Steve had gone, or give them any names, but he insisted the only reason he was alive was because of Steve.

In the month that followed, there were a lot of whispers, but no actual confirmed sightings. Cuba, Haiti, Dominica, Grenada, Venezuela – it appeared they were hopping all over the West Indies, but nobody could be sure whether they were in pursuit of the betrayer or if they themselves were being chased.

It all eventually came to a head when Bruce uncovered suspicious movement in Tobago. Apparently, several plane tickets to New York had been purchased all at the same time. Since they’d been bought with cash, Bruce hadn’t been able to trace the buyer, but in the end, he hadn’t needed to.

Of all the people he could’ve called, Steve reached out to Thor; he said to expect them in five hours, and asked him to send Sam and Natasha to retrieve them at the airport. Their imminent arrival meant Bucky would get the answers he was owed _and_ get his revenge, but first, he needed to prepare. 

Another day, another grave, and this time, there would be no mourners.

Wanda and Thor had provided the supplies. Tony made sure the police steered clear. Clint ensured those who worked the territory were given the night off and compensated for their troubles. After the four of them made their contributions, they let him alone to handle the rest.

Bucky could’ve easily paid someone to do the digging for him, but this particular hole in the ground was special, and he wanted it done right. The land was hard, nearly frozen solid, but that didn’t stop him; he forced the soil to give way and steadily worked toward making a six-by-six-foot chasm.

The blisters on his palms, the sweat on his brow, the ache in his back, the burn in his lungs and arms – it was cathartic. As the shovel moved and the dirt pile grew, he was also taken down into that silent, dark space inside himself, and he admittedly enjoyed the slow crawl into it.

Part of being Boss was ensuring that what occurred back stage _stayed_ backstage. They always put on a show to distract the public, because what happened behind the curtain was bloody and violent, and those with delicate sensibilities couldn’t be permitted to know or see how shit _really_ went down.

Things had gotten out of hand, and unfortunately, the masks had slipped, and they’d exposed themselves a bit too much. Outsiders had been allowed to infiltrate and rewrite the script, but he would no longer tolerate it. Steve may have selected the time for the song-and-dance, but Bucky had chosen the venue, and he was for damn sure running the show now.

This was _his_ fucking city. These were _his_ fucking people. And he was _done_ fucking around.

When Bucky was satisfied, he tossed up the shovel, and used the small step ladder to climb out. The old paper mill he’d chosen for the meet was vacant and tucked out of the way, which meant there was nobody around to see him ready the center of the factory floor with thick, plastic sheeting. He’d just finished laying it and taping it down when the front doors opened and Natasha stepped over the threshold.

It only took a minute for everyone else to make their way inside, and those sixty seconds were very telling. The dead Senator’s wife and Sam’s little helper had huddled up close, and their expressions conveyed they’d chosen to cling to each other for safety, not warmth. Fury and his crew entered next, and their stoicism suggested they knew what was coming. Bucky fully expected Sam and Steve to bring up the rear, but when only Sam appeared, he looked to Natasha for an explanation. 

“He’s not here, but asked me to give you this,” she murmured. “Said it’s his payment in full.” 

A small tablet in a protective, leather case. Innocuous in and of itself, but once turned on and perused, the contents shook the very foundation of the business. There were dossiers on all of the heaviest hitters in both Brooklyn and the West Indies, and the material had the potential to completely shift the balance of power. On top of it, there were other records, which included detailed profiles on Fury’s crew, along with evidence that proved who was responsible for the debacle that had been his life for months.

Bucky lifted his gaze from the tablet and locked eyes with Fury. He didn’t have to ask if the man knew everything, nor did he have to wonder if the rest of his crew knew they had a traitor in their midst. One look at Sam and Natasha was all it took for Bucky to know they were also well aware of what had to happen.

Perhaps if it had been any other time, in any other place, Bucky would’ve shown mercy, but he’d run out of compassion long ago. He had zero sympathy for the so-called innocent and absolutely no desire to show a single ounce of leniency toward the guilty. The only recompense for treason was blood, and as Bosses, he and Nick were responsible for putting their perspective conspirators down.

“You know what you need to do,” Bucky stated calmly.

Fury said Maria’s name and both Natasha and Sam sprang into action. The rest of the crew gave them a wide berth, and while the other two women had to be forced onto their knees, Maria knelt willingly, and she was the only one who didn’t scream and beg for her life.

Bucky retrieved his gun from the base of his spine and disengaged the safety. He didn’t torture them or allow them any last words, and the only small courtesy he offered was a quick, clean death via a well-aimed bullet to each in turn.

Sam gave Fury his weapon, and though he’d accepted it without reluctance, he didn’t immediately pull the trigger. It could’ve been because they’d known each other a long time, or maybe it was because he just needed closure – whatever the reason, he hesitated, and asked her why she did it.

The litany of excuses was as predictable as it was pathetic. Maria accused Fury of replacing with her with an amateur; said it was _her_ plan that got them into the United States; insisted Nick was the one who screwed it up because he was weak, old, and allowed sentiment to get in the way.

Fury reminded her Steve only got caught because she’d set him up; told her the man didn’t deserve to die because of her greed and jealousy; explained he did what he did in order to save Steve’s life and avoid a war. Maria retorted that Fury was going to retire and leave everything to Steve, and she did what she had to do to protect the mantle that was rightfully hers.

The back and forth went on for some time, and Bucky managed to tune most of it out, but when she said Steve was feeble, treacherous, and pitiful, he couldn’t help but be drawn back in.

“Unlike your precious, golden boy, my loyalties have _never_ been divided,” she spat. “And you’re an idiot if you think Steve’s so-called respect for you will _ever_ outweigh his _obsession _with Barnes.”

Fury shook his head, but before he could say anything more, Maria shifted her ire, and focused it on Bucky. She sneered that Steve was a chatty drunk, and all it took was a few drinks for him to get sloppy and start blubbering on and on about how James Barnes was, _“the one who got away.”_

“_Bucky, Bucky, Bucky_,” she jeered. “You _pity-fucked_ him _once, _and he _still_ cried out for you like that in his sleep. And I knew – I _knew_ when he caught up with us that he’d crawled back into bed with you. He sold us all out! He’s nothing more than an unworthy, ungrateful, deceitful _whore_!”

Rage, threadbare patience, and itchy trigger fingers – it was a bad, bad, bad combination, but it wasn’t Bucky or even Fury who decided to finally shut her up.

Natasha tersely muttered, _‘that’s quite enough,’ _aimed, sent a knife flying.

Whatever else may have spewed out of Maria’s mouth was cut off, and the next sound she made was little more than a wet gurgle. Blood dribbled down her chin before it bloomed across her chest.

Then, she was gone.


	15. Chapter 14: Vortex

_ **Chapter 14: Vortex** _

The McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas. Glaring Cirque du Soleil posters, cheesy merchandise, overpriced grub, and soul-sucking slot machines.

Steve didn’t really much care for all the bells, whistles, and neon lights, but since he hadn’t quite decided where he was headed to next, he parked his ass at a bar, and ordered a drink. And when it was gone? Well, it didn’t take long for the bartender to pour him another. And another. _And__another_.

The Families’ forefathers had never had a problem executing traitors. Theirs was very much a world of talk-shit, get hit, and people who stepped out of line were either put in their place or sent to their grave. Many generations had come and gone, but things hadn’t changed _that_ much; there were some things that could not be ignored or forgiven, and they still dispensed brutal, bloody justice.

Nick had truly believed he possessed more than enough power and authority to guarantee nobody on his team would ever go rogue. He’d had a solid, profitable game going, but he wasn’t complacent, and he sure as hell wasn’t stupid. Maria may have had other people do the dirty work for her, but Fury would’ve eventually seen past the subterfuge, and the end result would’ve been the same.

All Steve did was make it happen sooner, rather than later.

Somewhere after shot number five – that’s when it dawned on him. None of it mattered anymore. Fury wanted to retire anyway, so, he’d walk, take his fortune with him, and more than likely collect on an annual finder’s fee from the Families. Since they didn’t like to waste talent or opportunities, the business and rest of the crew would probably be absorbed, and given Natasha’s propensity for turning shit piles into gold, she’d probably be sent in to run things.

At the end of shot number six, he realized something even more groundbreaking – he was _truly_ free. For the first time in his adult life, he didn’t have to answer to anyone, and could do what he wanted. He could stop running and hiding, vacate his seat with the Families, and _finally _get out for good.

“Drinking to victory or drowning your sorrows?”

Steve groaned and sat his tumbler down, “How did you find me?”

Natasha perched on the stool beside him, “You forgot to toss your phone after you called Thor.”

He sighed, retrieved his cell from his pocket, and took out the battery. Steve also removed the memory card and snapped it in half.

“What do you want?” he muttered.

“You need to come back with me,” she said quietly. 

“No, I don’t.”

“This isn’t a request, Steve – it’s an order.”

“I don’t take orders from you. And I don’t take orders from _him_, either.” 

Natasha attempted to argue her case, but he didn’t listen. Instead, Steve hailed the bartender, and asked for his bill. He put enough cash down to cover the tab and a generous tip, but before he could get to his feet, she placed a hand on his forearm, and held tight.

“Let go of me,” he bit out warningly. “Or I’ll break your fucking hand.”

“Hey, that’s no way to talk to a lady.”

As soon as he heard Sam’s voice, Steve closed his eyes, and forced himself to count backward from ten. He should’ve known Natasha would bring backup for the ambush. Steve considered trying to make a run for it, but he couldn’t escape them without causing a scene, and the booze he’d dumped down his gullet had made him a tad unsteady on his feet.

For the next five hours, Steve remained miserably sandwiched between. When they landed in Brooklyn, Bruce was there to pick them up, but whatever happened after the show got on the road was a complete blank. He must’ve either fallen asleep or simply passed out, because when he came to, he was no longer in the car, and had no clue where he’d ended up.

The only thing Steve knew when he woke was that he was still a little drunk, a lot pissed off, and whoever put him to bed had taken the trouble to undress him and cover him with a sheet. A clock on the nightstand revealed it was almost ten in the morning, and though Steve wanted nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep, he was hungry, and reeked of booze. The combination made him queasy, which prompted him to hobble out of bed, and weave his way to the adjacent bathroom.

An overhead light kicked on automatically, and when he entered, he found his clothes, which had been washed, primly folded, and stacked in neat a pile on the left side of the sink’s oversized countertop. Lined up in a row on the opposite side were a fresh towel, a packet of Tylenol, a bottle of water, a new toothbrush, and a box of toothpaste. After he utilized the facilities and the hangover kit, Steve fired up the hot water, and stepped into the shower stall.

On a recessed shelf beneath the showerhead was a bottle of shampoo and an unused bar of soap. As soon as the fog lifted a bit, he set about getting cleaned up, and when the scents of _Oribe Signature _and _Côte d'Azur _filled the air, he knew precisely where he was.

He finished up quickly, and as he dried off and got dressed, Steve clocked it all. The _Sauvage _cologne tucked behind a box of tissues; a rolled-up wad of what had to be at least five-grand in the medicine cabinet; the fully-loaded nine-millimeter behind the toilet tank; a switch blade hidden in a basket of haircare product; an interconnected walk-in closet filled to the brim with posh labels, custom tailoring, and an _alarming_ amount of shoes.

Heady, menacing, and rich as fucking Croesus – yeah, he was in the King’s castle all right, and His Majesty was using the trappings and authority of his position to fuck with his head. 

Instead of waiting to be summoned, he headed back toward the bedroom, and out into the hall. He made it all of three steps when he heard Bucky’s voice, and the low-timbered tone was hard-edged and steadily rising in volume. When Steve entered the living area, he found Natasha typing furiously on a laptop, and the reason for her strained expression was revealed when Bucky began bellowing at the top of his lungs.

“Don’t give me that shit!” he roared. “You do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it!”

Steve rolled his eyes and headed to the kitchen. Situated in the middle of the island was a bowl of apples, and after he snagged one, he took it to the sink to wash it. Bucky carried on with his tirade, never once paused for breath, and it wasn’t until Steve took a seat at the counter that Bucky even realized he’d entered the room.

Even though the man was still busy ranting, Steve knew he was the one who had his _full_ attention. Bucky had always had a bit of a knife kink, and he’d been using a paring blade to cut away pieces of the fruit, and eating the slices directly off the steel. When there was nothing left but the core and seeds, Steve opened his mouth, and very carefully dragged the knife from bolster to spine slowly along his tongue.

“Stop it,” Bucky barked curtly.

Steve jutted his chin, “Or what?”

Any challenge issued could not be ignored, and he did what Steve predicted he’d do; he hung up on whoever he’d been shouting at, and stalked toward him. Bucky tried to intimidate him by crowding him, but he didn’t balk; he simply quirked an eyebrow and waited for him to make a move.

Crisp, white dress shirt strained against heavy muscle; haphazard tie; disheveled hair; eyes bright and a little too wild. It would’ve been easy to assume Bucky was either strung out or about to take a swing, but the lust-blown gaze, flushed cheeks, and damp brow suggested he had something else on his mind.

If they were alone, Bucky would have tried climbed him like a fucking tree, and he knew it.

Steve vividly recalled the last time they’d gone at each other’s throats, and while Bucky was looking for a repeat, Steve wasn’t. He was trying to get out, not drawn back in, and there was just too much history, bad blood, and unresolved hostility between them. Behind the passion was a lot of underlying rage and ugliness; it had been left to fester like an unattended wound, and sex – no matter how mind-blowing – wasn’t going to heal it.

“Boss,” Natasha called out from the living room. “We _don’t_ have time for this.”

Much to his relief, the subtle reminder was all it took for Bucky to come to his senses, dial it down, and take a step back. He ordered Natasha to finish making transportation and flight arrangements before he spun on a heel and headed toward his bedroom. A few moments later, the door slammed, and the sound made Natasha flinch.

“Is this what you dragged me back here for?” Steve wondered.

She walked into the kitchen and plopped down on the stool beside him, “They’ve negotiated Fury’s golden parachute, but there’s a problem.”

He nodded and crossed his arms over his chest, “Go on.”

“Scott, Carol, and Rhodey are skittish and don’t want an outsider running things. And even though they were all cleared of any wrongdoing, the Families refuse to let them promote from within.”

Steve didn’t need to hear anymore, because he knew very well where the conversation was headed, and what the Families wanted him to do. In order to keep their profit shares and maintain control, they needed someone to not only settle the waters, but also steer the ship.

It didn’t matter what he wanted – they were going to pull him back in and _never_ let him go…

Natasha sighed and got to her feet, “They’re are flying out to today, and they expect you to be there to attend the meet and sign the paperwork.”

She didn’t wait for him to acquiesce or argue; she just handed him a cellphone and told him his boarding pass and itinerary were on it. When he brought to the screen to life and checked the destination, he couldn’t help but snort, because he now knew where he was headed to next.

Steve was being forced to go back to where it all began…

He was going back to Bermuda_._


	16. Chapter 15: Imperfect Union

_ **Chapter 15: Imperfect Union** _

Miles of pink sand beaches, palm trees, and the stunning blue-green waters of the Atlantic. Opulent accommodations, accompanied by lavish surroundings, and meticulous Five Diamond service. 

There was a lot they needed to accomplish, but they’d all put the business on the back burner because the meet on the South Shore was about more than just settling accounts and signing bottom lines; it was also about mending fences, giving Nick Fury a proper sendoff, and ensuring the torch was passed into safe, capable hands. 

Dinner had been set up in one of the resort’s waterfront event rooms, and it would’ve been a stilted affair had everyone not partaken in the generous platters of fresh seafood and imbibed nearly a dozen bottles of _Mitcher’s Bourbon Whiskey _and _Screaming Eagle Sauvignon Blanc._

Wanda, Natasha, and Carol got tipsy, giggled, and gabbed like long-lost pals. Fury, Scott, and Rhodey definitely got drunk, and they somehow persuaded Thor, Clint, and Tony, who were all plastered, to join them for a game of high-stakes poker. To an outsider, it looked like they were a group of friends just blowing off some steam, but in actuality, they were all trying to distract themselves and find their bearings.

Bucky maintained his composure throughout the evening and Steve was just as civil. Though nobody dared to point out the elephant in the room, they were all very well aware that the two of them were not exactly copacetic, and needed to be given a wide berth. Steve chose to occupy himself by making the rounds and chit-chatting. Bucky, on the other hand, opted to hide out on the balcony, and he’d just decided to call it a night when Natasha stepped outside and joined him.

She handed him a fresh drink and gently nudged his shoulder, “You okay?”

Bucky took a sip and shrugged, “Why do you ask?”

“Because you seem worried. And you’ve been eye-balling Steve for the past two hours.”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” he countered. “And I’m watching _everyone_.”

“How about you cut the bullshit and tell me what’s really bothering you?” 

He shook his head, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” she shot back.

Bucky turned away from the room and stared out at the view, but the sounds and sights of the waves brought him no comfort this time. If anything, his mind churned even harder than the waters of the ocean, and he wasn’t sure how to explain what he was thinking, let alone how he was feeling.

Steve had only returned to Brooklyn to do a job. He’d been set up, betrayed, and nearly killed, but still, he stayed, and he’d remained loyal. He’d brought in the traitors; handed over Fury’s business and crew; gave the Families more than enough intel to set them up for several decades to come. He’d struggled and fought tooth-and-nail for months to put things right and make a clean break.

Bucky could’ve pulled rank, put his foot down, and given Steve’s seat to Natasha, but he didn’t. He knew being put in charge of the West Indies wasn’t what Steve wanted, but instead of giving him his well-earned freedom, Bucky had taken it away, and he didn’t do it because it was just good business, or because he wanted to make the transition more palatable.

He did it because he _wanted_ Steve to stay, and it was easier and less messy to force his hand than to _ask_ him to stick around. He wanted him to _stay_ because whether Steve liked it or not, _this_ was where he was _meant_ to be, and _this_ was what he’d been groomed to do since before he could walk.

Bucky wanted Steve to stay, because even with all the enmity between them, even after everything they’d done to each other, there was still nobody else in the world he trusted more than him.

He wanted him to stay because he’d already let Steve go once, and he’d regretted it. He wanted him to stay because despite what Steve had told him, it _had meant something_, and Bucky hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since the moment he’d fled Jamaica.

He wanted him to stay because what Maria said before Natasha put her down got under his _fucking_ skin. He wanted him to stay, because no other man had ever fit so well in his life, or would ever look _so right _in his bed, and Bucky just couldn’t _let it go_…

But he couldn’t _admit_ to any of it. Bucky couldn’t say any of it aloud, because that would make it too real, and he couldn’t allow himself to be honest or vulnerable or display anything that resembled human frailty. They’d reasserted control, but their grasp over both Brooklyn and their new real estate was still tenuous, and he needed to keep his authority, dignity, and backbone intact. 

“Do you love him?”

He snorted, “Love is one vice I can’t afford to indulge in.”

Natasha frowned, “That’s not an answer.”

“Well, that’s the answer you’ve been given,” Bucky retorted before he polished off his drink. “And on that note, I’m going to bed.”

On his way out, Bucky politely bid everyone goodnight, and then made his way to the elevator. It arrived promptly, and after he stepped inside, he selected the top floor. The doors had nearly closed, but someone shot out a hand and halted them. When Scott’s face appeared, Bucky stepped aside to make room for him, along with Steve and Rhodey, who followed quickly behind.

“I told you that you shouldn’t have dealt him in,” Rhodey groused. 

“A Royal fuckin’ Flush on the first hand,” Scott groaned in defeat. “How’s that even possible?”

Steve grinned and clapped them both on the back, “You can pay up in the morning.”

The three of them busted each other’s balls for several floors, and because Bucky’s suite was at the top of the high-rise, he got to be a spectator to all their antics. There were also several stops along the way, and one of the passengers kept readjusting his luggage until it fell right on top of his foot. The owner of the baggage didn’t even apologize, and Bucky was about to go off when he realized the person who had scuffed the toe of his _Salvatore Ferragamo _was too busy gawking at Steve to even realize what had happened.

Slapdash vacation ensemble of flip-flops, board-shorts, and a white t-shirt. A toned body, sharp jaw, and sandy-brown hair. He blushed and looked positively besotted, but all that doe-eyed innocence was counterbalanced with a flash of a sly smirk and the reveal of a tongue ring when he talked.

The elevator signaled it had arrived at the fifteenth floor, which was where Scott and Rhodey disembarked. If they said anything to him before they departed, Bucky didn’t hear it, as soon as it was just him, Steve, and the dude with the bad manners, the haphazard flirtation began.

It was way too much and far too obvious, which meant he wasn’t a pro, and the way he tried to subtly slip Steve his phone number suggested he was just a horny guy looking to get laid. Steve didn’t engage, but he didn’t exactly shut him down hard, either. Though his tone suggested he was very flattered, he was tactful, and even somewhat contrite when he said he wasn’t interested. To his credit, the guy took the rejection like a champ, and didn’t press the issue further.

Bucky knew he had no right whatsoever to be invidious of _“my-name-is-Chad-and-my-room-is-1801-if-you-change-your-mind.”_ But he couldn’t deny that he _really_ wanted to kick the guy’s teeth in, and he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t relieved that Steve didn’t change his mind decide to go with him.

He couldn’t recollect how many men had propositioned him in the past few months. He couldn’t remember their voices, their faces, or what they said to him. Bucky also couldn’t recall how many times he’d woken up alone, sober and extremely frustrated, because as much as he wanted to fuck Steve out of his system, he hadn’t been able to get it up for anyone else in months.

The automated voice chimed, _“Floor Twenty,”_ and the doors parted. Steve got out and turned right. Bucky was supposed to go left, but he didn’t. Instead, he pursued Steve all the way to the end of the hall and right up to his door. The lock beeped and Steve reached for the handle, but Bucky got to it first. Even though he hadn’t been invited, and knew his presence was entirely _unwelcome_, he entered Steve’s room, and turned on the light.

As soon as Steve stepped over the threshold and the door clicked shut, Bucky turned around, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and slanted his mouth down hard over his.

None-too-gentle, deep, and possessive – it was a kiss that contradicted his words, shot his best intentions to hell, and betrayed his so-called indifference. It was a lip-lock that produced an instantaneous erection, which proved he wasn’t impotent, but also verified there was only one man he _could_ and _always_ _would _get hard for.

Bucky growled, pinned Steve up against the door, and bit down hard on his neck. Steve chuckled and Bucky knew – he _knew_ that Steve knew was jealous – and he didn’t care. He just reached for his belt and yanked it open. As soon as the zipper was lowered and his boxers were pushed past his hips, Steve brought his hand to his mouth, and dragged his tongue over his palm and fingers. The hot, spit-slicked grasp around his dick made Bucky’s eyes roll back, and as the pressure increased, so did Steve’s grip.

It was all hot and frantic, but any thoughts of trying to reciprocate flew out of his head the moment Steve started to use both hands. He cupped and fondled with his left and maintained a steady pace with the right. He swiped the pad of his thumb repeatedly over the tip until Bucky was nice and slippery, and the sound of Steve working him over was just as filthy as it was erotic. 

“Is this the _real_ reason I’m here?” he asked with a pointed squeeze. “Is _this_ what you want me for?”

When Bucky didn’t answer right away, Steve jerked him harder, and picked up the pace.

“I gave you _everything_ you wanted, but that wasn’t enough, was it? You want me under your thumb. You want me to follow your orders. You want me to call you _Boss_, don’t you?”

He moaned against his throat, “I want… _Fuck, _Steve, I want…”

“What? What do you want?” he demanded lecherously. “You want to fuck me into _obedience_? Screw me into _submission_? Is that what you want, _JB_? Do you just want a hole to stick your prick into, or do you actually _want_ **_me_**?” 

“Don’t stop,” Bucky begged as he thrust his hips. “_Fuck_, whatever you do, _don’t_ stop.”

“Say you want _me_. Say it and _mean_ it,” Steve breathed into his ear. “Just say it, and I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that I can handle it – that I can handle _you –_ and whatever else that gets thrown at us_. Say it_, and I just _might_ let you come someplace else other than in your pants.”

Bucky should’ve been a man and owned up to what he felt, but he didn’t. At the same time Steve ripped the orgasm from his body, the word _“No!” _was also roughly torn out of his throat, and there was absolutely no way to take it back.

He knew he deserved it when Steve released him harshly and shoved him away. Bucky also knew Steve was more than justified in his actions when he spat in his face and wiped his cum-stained hands off on the sleeves of his suit jacket.

“I’m _not_ some fuck-toy for you to play around with,” he snarled as he threw the door open wide.

Bucky pulled up his pants and met Steve’s rage-filled eyes, “I _can’t_. _We_ can’t and I’m–”

“Just shut the fuck up,” Steve interjected coldly. “And get _the fuck_ out.”


	17. Chapter 16: Exsanguinate

_ **Chapter 16: Exsanguinate** _

It had been five months since the sit down in Bermuda.

Twenty-three uneventful weeks since Fury said his goodbyes. 155 days since the leadership restructure was cemented. 3,720 profitable, peaceful hours, and Steve hadn’t been required to do anything more than provide status updates to Natasha. 

But the respite ended via a hand-delivered missive he’d hoped – _in vain_ – not to receive.

An envelope made from heavy paper stock; his name etched in calligraphy across the front; a wax seal with a bygone coat of arms for the Families on the back; and inside, a hand-carved announcement that displayed birthday celebration details for James Buchanan “JB” Barnes. As a standing member of the Families, Steve was required to make an appearance and pay homage. He couldn’t ignore or decline it, because if he did, it would be an insult, and he had no desire to deal with the fallout or consequences of issuing a mere – albeit well-deserved – snub.

All arrangements had been made in advance, and the only thing Steve had to do was arrive on time, and comport himself appropriately. Seventy-two hours later, he was off to New York, and during the five-hour flight, he meticulously planned and timed everything. Get there at nine; shake hands and make nice with the appropriate people; appear in a few photos to prove he’d been in attendance; duck out before they cut the cake; and be back in the West Indies before anyone noticed he’d left.

It should’ve been that simple, but as with all things concerning the Families, it wasn’t.

Thor hemmed-and-hawed and attempted to push one of his less-than-stellar newbies off on him. Tony wanted his opinion about the cops they had on their payroll and whether or not they should be compensated even more because of the additional heat the expansion brought on. Clint needed to know if there was a more expedient and cost-efficient route for shipments, and if he had a preferred contact at the Port Authority out his way. Wanda insisted on going over the quarterly financials, and wanted to introduce him to a man she guaranteed would be a perfect match for him professionally and personally. 

By the time he’d extracted himself from the Families and their nonsense, Rhodey, Carol, and Scott had arrived. They weren’t obligated to make an appearance, but they’d surprisingly showed up, which meant his escape timeline got thrown off even more. It was his duty to make appropriate introductions on their behalf, and those presentations had to be finessed and unhurried. Sam had also tracked him down, and though Steve enjoyed catching up with him, he really just wanted to leave.

“He wants to see you,” Natasha informed as they posed for the photographer. “Privately.”

“Not going to happen,” Steve bit out through his faux-smile.

As soon as the camera stopped flashing, Steve dropped his arm from around Natasha’s waist, and placed his untouched champagne flute on a nearby table. He eyeballed the nearest exit and checked the time on his phone; it was fifteen-minutes to midnight, which meant the guest of honor would arrive soon, and he needed to get gone.

“Don’t even think about it,” Natasha warned.

Her veiled threat was easily ignored, but he wasn’t able to disregard the arrival of two, fully-armed security guards. Whether Steve liked it or not, they would fulfill their orders, and he knew they had no qualms about using force. Since it was neither the time nor the place to cause a scene, Steve chose to go quietly, and followed them to the elevator. The three of them flanked him all the way up to the penthouse suite and announced their arrival by two-way radio. Another bodyguard opened the door and patted him down before they were ushered inside. 

The entryway opened up to an expansive room with tasteful artwork, expensive furnishings, and floor-to-ceiling windows. A flat-screen television was mounted above the fireplace with a built-in wet bar on one side and a chaise lounge on the other. A glass-top desk was situated to the left of the sofa. To the right was a set of stairs, tucked behind a half-wall that separated the bedroom from the rest of the space.

A muffled rush of water; a turn of a doorknob; a heavy footfall. Bucky was heard before he was seen, and when he stepped out of the bathroom, Steve pointedly kept his eyes focused on the skyline view. 

“Anything else you need, Boss?” one of the guards asked.

The dismissal must’ve been a silent one, because a few moments later, all three hired guns left the room. Natasha stayed behind only long enough to remark that she’d left the paperwork on the desk, and then, promptly departed. As soon as the door was closed and they were alone, Bucky poured himself a drink, took a seat, and picked up the folder. 

“I want you to take a look at this,” he ordered. 

Steve sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, “What is it?”

Bucky’s clipped response of, _“Take a seat and see for yourself,”_ set off all sorts of warning bells in his head. The glare he received when he impolitely snatched the file out of Bucky’s hands didn’t bode well, either, and Steve barely got through the first two pages of the dossier before his knocking knees forced him to sit down hard in a chair on the opposite side of the desk.

With the death of the betrayers and Fury’s departure, the entire matter should’ve been put to rest, but Bucky apparently had an axe to grind, and hadn’t let it go. Based on what Steve had reviewed, he knew the additional skeletons in the closet had been uncovered on Bucky’s order, and as he continued to read, he learned the Families had been exceptionally and dangerously thorough.

They’d found Steve’s connection to Phil and paid both him and Bruce to go down the rabbit hole. The two of them had pulled on every, single thread until the entire web unraveled. Every misdeed and act of duplicity had been unearthed, and it showed that at one time or another, each member of his own crew had either sold out, overthrown, or was somehow indirectly or even outright directly responsible for the death of their previous Bosses.

The only person Rhodey, Carol, and Scott hadn’t betrayed was Fury, but that didn’t matter, because their past transgressions were being seen as a preview of things to come. They’d been in the game awhile, but didn’t have generations upon generations of history and convention and blood keeping them loyal. And the Families – well, they believed one bad apple could spoil the whole bunch, and given what Maria had done, they weren’t going to allow anyone else the chance to stab one of their own in the back again.

It was the reason for the pre-arranged travel. It explained why Thor, Tony, Clint, Wanda, and Sam had monopolized him from the moment he’d arrived. It clarified why everyone Steve had introduced his people to had been curt or downright indifferent. Natasha had purposefully extracted him so he couldn’t save them, and under the guise of protecting the Families interests, Bucky had them wiped out.

People had been informed. Funds had been re-distributed. Contracts had been drawn up. Sam, Bruce, and Natasha would be sent to the West Indies as replacements. The only thing left to do was ensure Steve signed off on the already-completed execution orders.

He couldn’t say he was surprised by the turn of events, but the last few pages did shock him, and the formal verbiage in the declaration was clear. Should Steve wish it, he could vacate his seat without penalty, keep what he’d amassed, and receive an even better retirement package than what Fury had been given. If he didn’t fight it – if he kept his mouth shut and put ink to paper – he would be free.

“You’re going to let me go?” Steve wondered incredulously. 

Bucky retrieved a pen from his pocket and placed it on the desk, “Don’t mistake this for anything other than what it is.”

“Then, why?” Steve demanded lowly. “Why did you do it?”

“Because you’re mine,” Bucky asserted as he polished off his drink. “And I don’t let people fuck with what’s mine.”

Steve closed his eyes and shook his head. Those words would have made him drop to his knees five years ago, but now? Now, those words didn’t mean shit to him, because they didn’t come from a place where statements like that _should_ come from. It wasn’t primal instinct, passion, or hell, even _affection_ that made him say it.

The man sitting across from him wasn’t Bucky anymore – he was JB – _Boss_ of bosses.

And this was just business.

He nodded his head toward the contract, “You said you were ready. So, show me. Prove that you can handle me.”

“No,” Steve bit out as he tossed the paperwork down on the desk and got to his feet. “Not this way. _Not_ like this – not now, not _ever_.”

Bucky stood up, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he retorted. “And on top of that – go fuck yourself.”

When the gun was unholstered, Steve didn’t even flinch; instead, he made himself an easy target, extended his arms, and tauntingly jutted his chin.

“We’re not friends and I sure as hell _do not_ belong to you. So, come on, JB, do it – pull the trigger.”

Bucky’s three-piece suit, Steve’s faded jeans, and two pairs of unflinching, narrowed blue eyes. An opus of bitterness; a symphony of raging regret; a sonata of past sorrows; a melody of carnality atop silk sheets. The _tick, tick, tick_ of the miniature grandfather clock on the desk and a hiss as the air conditioner kicked on. The faint scent of cigars from a previous sit down mixed with a hint of bourbon.

“I think you should reconsider the offer,” Bucky equivocated. “And how you speak to me. I’m not a man to be trifled with.”

“If you were any kind of man at all, you wouldn’t have even put that piece of shit contract in front of me,” he fumed. “It’s an insult and you know it.”

“You never could separate business from pleasure.”

Steve pressed his lips together and swallowed hard. It was a sucker punch and he refused to react to it. With nothing more to say, he headed for the door, but before he left, he paused at the threshold. If he walked out, there would be no turning back, but before he resigned himself to that cold fate, Steve looked over his shoulder at Bucky one, final time.

“You’re right, I never could separate it,” he acknowledged quietly. “But at least I would’ve put _you_ first.”

What the slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression on Bucky’s face meant, Steve would never know, because with those parting words, he opened the door, and walked out.


	18. Chapter 17: Deliverance

_ **Chapter 17: Deliverance** _

_Twelve Weeks Later…_

Grand Bahama Island was nothing short of paradise.

Clear-blue waters and sandy shores. All-inclusive resorts, fantastic cuisine, and a population that consisted of friendly locals, old money, and the nouveau rich. Privacy, exclusivity, and luxury, all wrapped up in an idyllic package.

And now, Bucky owned a piece of it. 

The deed was discovered inside an understated, navy-blue letter storage box. It had been found crushed at the very bottom of the heap of customary tributes and gifts Bucky received on his birthday. Banner, Sam, and Natasha had been helping him sort through everything and write thank-you notes for weeks, and they were finally in the home stretch.

Those lower on the totem pole gave cash or a nice bottle of booze. Others higher up on the food chain arranged to foot the bill for more extravagant things, like a tailor-made suit or a custom watch. People at the very top spared no expense, and usually gifted items like a trip to a destination of his choice or an imported car, but in this instance, someone had decided to give him a multi-million-dollar mansion just off the coast of Florida.

“It’s from Fury,” Banner declared. “Paperwork’s legit and the place is legally yours.”

Sam let out a low whistle, “That’s one _hell_ of a birthday present.”

Natasha opened the final envelope from the pile and pulled out a stack of papers, “And here’s another.” 

Bucky quickly scrawled a personalized message to Fury before he set his pen aside and accepted the file. The pages had little sticky-note flags that drew attention to each place that required a signature, and all corresponding lines had been properly dated, initialed, stamped, and notarized.

It had taken awhile, but Steve finally signed the documents, and had formally stepped aside. 

“I hope you’re happy now,” Natasha muttered.

Bucky sighed and turned to Bruce, “Take this directly to Wanda, and tell her to transfer the money as discussed. Sam, go with him. I want you both back here and ready to leave in thirty minutes.”

Both men nodded and hopped to it, and once they were gone, Natasha crossed her arms over her chest and gave him the stink-eye. He pointedly ignored her huffiness, left the office, and went to double-check his luggage. He, Sam, and Bruce were due to fly out to Bermuda in three hours to set up shop, and after Bucky made sure he had everything he needed, he left his bedroom, and dropped the bag by the door.

“He’s gone,” Natasha snapped as she entered the living room. “Are you satisfied?”

“Don’t start,” he warned. 

“Given enough time, you two could’ve taken the _whole _of New York. You could’ve been an unstoppable, untouchable powerhouse, and your influence at home _and_ abroad would’ve been limitless.”

“He wanted his freedom,” Bucky bit out lowly. “And I granted it.”

She laughed and threw up her hands, “Well, if you won’t have him, others will. I know some guys here who’ve been chomping at the bit for years, and they just can’t _wait_ to get their hands on him.”

Somewhere on the fringes of his brain, he heard Natasha point out that Steve was smoking hot, filthy fucking rich, and had that whole “wounded, bad-boy” thing going on – all of which his future bedmates would find exceedingly attractive. She also surmised Steve was bound to fall in love again eventually, and might even get married someday. Natasha then went on to say she hoped to be invited to the wedding, and that if Steve and his future husband ever adopted children, she would be the best auntie.

Bucky wasn’t entirely too sure how it happened. One minute, Natasha was prattling about baby clothes, in-home nannies, private schools, and how expensive college tuition was; the next, he had her by the throat, and slammed up against the wall. How the gun got in his hand was a mystery, and he didn’t know how the barrel ended up pressed to the center of her forehead, either.

All it took was one look into her triumph-filled eyes for Bucky to know she’d keyed him up on purpose. Natasha was the only person in his life he truly trusted and cared for, and Bucky had never raised a hand to her before, but his violent overreaction was proof he’d let his emotions overrule his reason yet again.

Bucky immediately released her and lowered the gun, “Nat… Shit, I didn’t…”

“An unacknowledged weakness is a dangerous thing,” she wheezed.

He cleared his throat and took a step back, “I just… I need you to leave it alone, alright?”

Natasha closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, “What you _need_ to do is nut up, go to Steve, and beg for his forgiveness. You know he belongs here with you, so, stop fighting it.”

The long stretch of heavily-weighted silence was broken by the return of Sam and Bruce. Both men had been laughing and chatting excitedly about the upcoming trip, but when they saw the cannon in Bucky’s hand and the abrasions around Natasha’s throat, they fell silent.

“Everything cool?” Sam wondered.

Natasha coughed and waved him off, but it wasn’t until Bucky holstered his weapon that the tension dissipated. While Banner examined Natasha, Sam approached him, and asked if he was all good.

Bucky nodded and clapped him on the shoulder, “Just a misunderstanding. Won’t happen again.”

A few moments later, a text announced the arrival of their car, and as it was Sam’s job to ensure it was actually their ride and not some sort of ambush, he shouldered his rucksack, and headed down first. After Bucky received the all clear, Bruce picked up his duffel, mumbled that travelling with the Boss was a pain in the ass, and followed suit.

Bucky gathered his bag and told Natasha he’d text when they landed. He’d been waiting in the hallway for the elevator for some time before the door to his penthouse opened, and she came out to join him. 

“Can you forgive me?” he requested solemnly.

“Bring me back something pretty and I’ll consider it.”

“Just let me know what kind of jewels you want.”

Natasha said, _“diamonds and rubies,” _and on the heels of her quip, the elevator door parted. As they descended, she linked arms with him, placed her head on his shoulder, and confessed she didn’t want him to be alone. When he pithily told her that she’d end up with wrinkles if she didn’t stop worrying, she pinched his bicep hard, and called him an asshole.

Bucky grinned and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, “Stop busting my balls, alright? I’ll be fine.”

Whatever she may have said by way of response was cut off when the elevator signaled that they’d reached the ground floor. The driver was quick to stow his bags and open the door for him, but before he could get in the back seat, Natasha tugged his arm, and halted him.

“Just promise me,” she insisted. “Promise me you’ll think about what I said.”

Bucky was saved from having to lie to her when Sam leaned out and yelled that they needed to get a move on. The last thing he heard before Natasha slammed the door in his face was, _“Steve’s in Île Saint-Louis__,”_ and her blurted declaration caught not only his attention, but Bruce’s as well.

“That’s not good,” Banner spluttered. “If Steve’s in Paris… Oh, that’s bad. Very bad…”

Sam glanced at him and made a motion with his hand for him to continue, “You want to fill me in?”

Bruce launched into what could only be described as an impassioned tirade that lasted for the entire drive to the airport and all the way through take off. 

He informed that Mason Dubois, the only child and beloved son of multi-billionaire and former mob Boss, Luc Dubois, lived in Paris. They were direct descendants of Jules Bonnot, who founded the Bonnot Gang in France in the 1900’s. Luc had followed in his ancestor’s footsteps, but unlike Jules, he hadn’t been an anarchist, and he’d never been caught. Before his untimely death, Luc ran the biggest game in the country; when the father passed away, the son stepped in, and his political ties, fortune, and Bonnot lineage meant he had more money, status, and power than God himself.

It was common knowledge that the Hornec gang was the most active and notorious crew in Paris, and though Dubois received a cut of the profits, racketeering, drugs, and illegal slot machines weren’t his stock and trade. He and his associates were definitely upper-crust, white-collar criminals, and they were _extremely_ well-funded and _very_ well-connected.

Sam still couldn’t see what the problem was, which prompted Bruce to reveal that Mason Dubois was Wanda’s cousin by marriage. He’d been in town the night of Bucky’s party and Wanda had introduced him to Steve. They were both in the business, knew some of the same players, and had common interests. Mason was also considered one of the most eligible bachelors in France, and for all intents and purposes, Steve was single as well. 

The not-so-subtle implications of Banner’s long-winded diatribe made Bucky close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. As soon as the plane landed and they got checked in to the resort, he retreated to his suite, and poured himself a more than liberal drink.

Bucky had done the impossible. He’d reclaimed Brooklyn; restored his people’s confidence in full; asserted complete control over the West Indies; and had come back from what could’ve been a very costly and fatal mistake. He should’ve been glad his long-term plan had succeeded, but he wasn’t, and the more he examined the reasons for his uneasiness, the more uncomfortable he became.

Steve’s acquiesce to the terms and subsequent departure to Paris meant he’d decided to free himself from the last vestiges of their strained, complicated relationship. He was no longer under any obligation to Bucky or the Families, which meant all bets were off. Wanda could play match-maker all she liked, and as a free-agent, Steve could conduct business – and climb into bed – with whomever he wished to.

And there was nothing Bucky could do about it.

His former best-friend, past partner-in-crime, and soon-to-be-lost love of his life was in danger of being taken off the market in more ways than one, and Bucky knew Natasha’s parting words had been a last-ditch effort to make him come to terms with it. She wanted him to not only admit his feelings, but also face the consequences of his actions, and repair the damage.

If Bucky had been honest – if he’d, just once, put Steve first – maybe things could’ve been different. If he hadn’t pulled him back in; hadn’t lifted him up just to screw him over; hadn’t betrayed him and rejected him and broken his heart so many _fucking_ times…

The sound of his phone going off prodded him out of his thoughts; he’d forgotten to text Natasha, which explained why she’d reached out first, but before he could type a reply, another message came through.

The words, _“Let me handle Bermuda,”_ appeared, along with a URL that redirected Bucky the website of his preferred airline. According to the departure schedule, if he booked the ticket immediately, and hauled ass to the airport, he could be in France just after sunrise. Natasha followed up again mere seconds later with, _“You go get him and bring him home.”_

Bucky scraped a hand over his face, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. With his heart somewhere in the vicinity of his fucking throat, he penciled himself into first class, checked in before he could change his mind, and called down to the lobby for a car.

Though the prospect of an uncertain outcome terrified him, Bucky was going to Paris, and in twelve hours, he’d know for sure whether or not his change of heart was just in time, or far too little, and much too late.


	19. Chapter 18: On Va Voir

_ **Chapter 18: On Va Voir** _

Steve had only been in France for four months, and while he hadn’t exactly unpacked his bags, he was already starting to feel at home. The apartment he’d rented in _Île Saint-Louis_ was small, but comfortable, and suited his needs.

The island was quiet, intimate, and full of centuries-old architecture. Eight streets, four quays, and far removed from the capital. An awe-inspiring place that beckoned one to stroll along the docks, stop and take pictures of the statues and stained-glass windows, and indulge in famous ice-cream from _Berthillon._

He’d moved to Paris, not only to get the hell away from everything and everyone, but also to get back into the very lucrative art smuggling industry. Steve hadn’t been in the game for some time, but it was something he knew, and could easily fall back on. Paris was the art capital of the world and he’d earned his stripes in some of the best galleries in New York; he’d also kept tabs on the movers and shakers over the years and still had connections and contacts.

Steve was already looking to get back to business, and while the fresh start, new surroundings, and exciting job opportunities were more than enough to keep him occupied, he wasn’t fully engrossed. He’d unintentionally become distracted by Mason Dubois and had been seeing him for a little over a month.

When Wanda introduced them, Steve had been curt, and too preoccupied to care if he’d come across as impolite. Whatever bad first impression he may have made on Mason hadn’t deterred him, and about a week after Steve got the keys to his new place, he’d found a welcome basket of cheese, bread, fruit, and wine on the doorstep. The note that accompanied it had been tongue-in-cheek flirtatious, and Mason had included both his number and an invitation for coffee.

The first meet up had been informal, with no expectation, pressure, or false promise. Then, they started texting, and eventually, breakfast dates turned to brunch, and lunch to dinner. After that, it was wine-tasting and bar-hopping; movies and junk food; early morning trips and late-night phone calls.

Mason looked at him unflinchingly and directly; he didn’t shutter his emotions or hide his intentions, but he wasn’t pushy, either. Smart as a whip and completely forthright, Mason was honest about what he got up to when he was away and just as truthful when he was present. A mop of curly brown hair; dark, bedroom eyes; closely-cropped beard; and a body that proved he both enjoyed and took care of himself. He was the real deal, the complete package, the quintessential dream man…

But Steve hadn’t slept with him – hadn’t even _kissed_ him – and couldn’t account for the hesitation.

“I need you to come clean, _mon bel ami_.”

Steve looked away from the view and arched an eyebrow, “About what?”

Mason sat back and tilted his head slightly to the side, “What’s _wrong_ with you, exactly?”

Steve paused with his wineglass halfway to his lips and laughed, “Looking for flaws already?” 

“Just trying to understand what’s going on inside that head of yours.”

“You don’t want to know – trust me.”

“_Au contraire_, I want to know everything about you,” Mason countered teasingly. “What makes you smile, what makes you mad. What you dream about at night and what your mouth tastes like…”

“You’re shamelessly persistent.”

“_Oui. _And you assertive, and yet, _très réticent_. You’re a contradiction. Like a _petit chaton_.”

“Did you – did you just call me a _kitten_?”

The arrival of their main courses meant Mason couldn’t respond verbally, but the mischievous wink and smirk spoke volumes, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t the 1967 _Dmaine Romanee Conti _that made him blush. Steve listened as he spoke to the waiter; he understood bits and pieces of the politely-toned commentary, and when the server departed, Mason picked up his fork, and placed his napkin in his lap.

A perfectly balanced vintage and amazing food kept them both focused on something other than coy banter. Lighter conversation centered around what was on their plates, which they exchanged a couple of times, followed by a chocolate soufflé that was the _pièce de résistance_ of the meal.

They were served their after-dinner cognac out on the veranda. Far away from the door, in a barely illuminated corner, Mason reached into his pocket, and pulled out a pack of _Gauloises_. Even though the brand was no longer manufactured, and there was absolutely no smoking on the restaurant’s property, he got away with having his way because he was the type of man people made allowances for.

Mason lit the cigarette with practiced ease, tossed the box and jewel-encrusted lighter down onto one of the concrete side tables, and took a seat. While he got in his nicotine fix, Steve sipped, and stared out at the water. The air was brisk, but did little to clear his head or calm his thoughts. 

“Who hurt you?” he wondered, breaking the silence. “And is the _connard_ still breathing?”

Steve looked down the balloon glass in his hand and sighed. The question was a loaded one and not at all benign. Rough and deep-timbered, Mason’s voice resounded, and loathe as he was to acknowledge it, the accent and hard-edged intonation sent a shiver up and down his spine. He wasn’t used to this; had never been wined, dined, or seduced, and didn’t know what it was to have a man’s utter and complete attention outside of the bedroom. It was awkward, thrilling, and deeply unnerving.

And he just wasn’t ready for it.

“Beneath it all, I believe you are a cautious, shrewd man,” Mason asserted. “That is why you make me chase you. _Vous aimez jouer à des jeux._”

Steve jerked his head up and turned to face him, “I _don’t_ play games.”

Mason stared back at him for a time before he put his cigarette out. The _Beauté du Siécle_ was something to be savored, but he uncharacteristically gulped it like it wasn’t worth nearly three-hundred thousand dollars a bottle and poured from a decanter made of crystal. He set the glass aside, got to his feet, and closed the distance between them.

The drink Steve had been holding to his chest like some sort of protective fucking barrier was pried out of his hand and put down on the flat cap of the balustrade. Mason caged him in by placing his hands on the railing on either side of him; he’d effectively trapped him, which meant there was no avoiding or escaping the fierce look in his dark, dark eyes.

“You’re worth pursual, but all running must stop eventually, _oui_?”

Another inquiry, but also one he could not provide an answer to. One hand transferred to his hip, anchoring, and vice-like. The other, tender and gentle against his cheek. A caress that moved down his jawline and a thumbpad that swiped whisper-soft across his lower lip.

“Are you going to stand still and let me kiss you, Steve Rogers?”

A careful, tentative brush – like a wide-eyed, expert painter who had already picked a hue, but was still trying to decide where to begin on the canvas. A shared breath that tasted of candied fruit and nutmeg. Tongue slipped and dipped between parted lips that were pliant and supple. Steady, steady, steady, until it wasn’t. Swaths and strokes and starbursts of vivid color. Pressed up together; thigh-to-chest; palms roving; and fingers dug in like claws.

Steve didn’t understand half of what rasped in his ear and against his throat – all he knew was that his heart was pounding and that Mason knew how to fucking kiss…

In the distance, someone cleared their throat. It took a forceful _ahem _and an additional cough before Mason growled low in his chest and lifted his head.

“_Si ce n’est pas une question de vie ou de mort, partez_,” he snapped.

“Désolé de vous déranger,” came the reply. “Vous devez prendre cela.”

Steve opened his eyes in time to see one of Mason’s personal security detail walking toward them, phone outstretched, and face placid. He stared at his feet, as if not making eye contact would minimize the intrusion somehow, and even went so far as to turn his back when Mason accepted the cell and began speaking.

His words were clipped at first, but then, they became cold. Rapid-fire French that Steve had no hope of keeping up with. The first words that made sense were, _“Steve is with me,”_ and then, something about his apartment that he didn’t quite follow.

“Are you expecting a visitor?” Mason asked after he hung up.

Steve furrowed his brow and shook his head, “No, why?”

He tapped the screen and handed over his phone. The photos were unfocused and a bit blurry, but the car parked beneath the streetlamp just outside his building revealed a driver with an all-too-familiar profile. There were a few more in the series that showed Bucky appeared to have been there awhile and hadn’t budged.

Mason was a man with many enemies, and when they started dating, he’d asked Steve’s permission to put a guard on standby outside his place. It was for his own peace of mind as well as Steve’s protection, and it was only supposed to be when he wasn’t home. Steve hadn’t protested at the time – after all, he was in an unfamiliar city, and didn’t have anyone to watch his back, so, it was better to be safe than sorry.

It made sense that whoever was on duty would take pictures of anyone or anything unfamiliar or out of order. What didn’t make sense, however, were the candid shots of Steve himself. They were too close up and far too vivid to have been taken from a cell, and they’d also been taken while he was at home and out on the town. The private moments had been captured without his consent, and the shock of Bucky being in France and parked outside his place paled by comparison.

Something in Steve’s body language or expression must’ve tipped Mason off, because the cell was suddenly snatched out of his hand, and quickly stowed away. Mason was on the short-list of people nobody ever dared to take a swing at, but Steve did, and he issued a sharp jab to his nose. Mason didn’t stumble, but he did grunt, and the blood that bloomed was as red as Steve’s vision. The guard immediately stepped forward, but Mason raised a halting hand, and the man stopped in his tracks.

“I deserved that,” he muttered.

“You think?” Steve scoffed.

“_Mon chat,_ I can explain–”

Steve didn’t ask the guard to move or stick around to listen to any excuses; he just turned on a heel, hoisted himself up and over the railing, and landed in the sand a few feet below. A quick, one-block jog saw him onto a busy street, where he hailed a cab, and told the driver there was an extra one-hundred euro in it for him if he put the pedal to the floor.

The incentive prompted a direct-route, wild ride that got him home in record time. Steve paid, hit the pavement, and made a beeline for Bucky’s car. He pounded his fist on the window, told him to get lost, and hot-footed it to his front door.

“Wait!” Bucky shouted after him. “Please, would you just–”

Unsteady hands meant the key missed the lock a few times, but he got there eventually, and darted inside. Once past the security door and inside the vestibule, Steve bypassed the elevator, and took the stairs three at a time. Eight flights later, he was in his apartment, and the first thing he did was out his cellular and pulverize it beneath his heel. 

The go-bag was on the top shelf in the closet. The gun, passport, burner phone, and cash were hidden beneath a loose floorboard next to the bed. On the back of a take-out menu, he scribbled out a note for the landlord, counted out enough money to cover the lease-break and cleaning fees, and dropped it on the kitchen counter.

In, out, and down the back fire escape in under three minutes. Behind the building, there was a loose brick in the façade, and all it took was a slight tug for it to come out. The set of keys he’d tucked away were still there, and Steve had just put the brick back in place when the sound of his name, squealing tires, and gunfire echoed in the air.

** _Translations:_ **

_Mon bel ami – My handsome friend.  
Au contraire – On the contrary.  
Très réticent – Very reluctant.  
Petit chaton – Little kitten.  
Connard – Asshole; motherfucker; bastard.  
Vous aimez jouer à des jeux – You like to play games.  
Oui – Yes.  
Si ce n’est pas la vie ou la mort, partez. – If it’s not a matter of life or death, go away.  
Désolé de vous déranger. Vous devez prendre cela. – Sorry to bother you. You have to take this.  
Mon chat – My kitten. _


	20. Chapter 19: On the Line

** _Chapter 19: On the Line_ **

Bucky had traveled 3,575 miles on nothing more than a combustive cocktail of desperation, adrenaline, and frayed nerves.

He hadn’t eaten, showered, or slept in almost two days, but that hadn’t mattered, and even with nothing but a city name to go by, he still managed to track Steve down. He’d waited anxiously and expectantly; practiced what he wanted to say; braced himself for what he anticipated would be, _at most_, a very soul-crushing, heart-breaking, go-on-a-bender-right-afterward rejection… 

However, instead of a rebuff, Bucky received a bullet to the chest, and he didn’t even know the prick who capped him, let alone the reason for it.

A subsequent ride in a dilapidated mini-van with a rank interior, and a dipshit behind the wheel who drove like they were playing a fucking pinball machine instead of operating a motorized vehicle. The shocks – if they’d ever existed at all – had done nothing to absorb the impact of the chaotic ride, and Bucky tried not to howl like a wounded animal as everything quaked, rattled, and rolled around him.

The jacket used to help plug the leak was his own, but Steve was the one who kept continued pressure on the wound. Bucky was in the trunk, with all two-hundred-forty-pounds and six-feet-two-inches of Steve’s body straddled over him, and when Steve wiped the back of his hand across his sweat-drenched forehead, a streak of Bucky’s blood was left behind.

“Drive faster!” Steve yelled toward the front.

“I’m going as fast as this _putain de boîte de conserve_ will allow!” came a harried reply. 

As they careened around a sharp corner, Steve redoubled his efforts, and pushed down harder. The goal was to keep Bucky from being jostled, but all it did was exacerbate the pain. In a matter of minutes, he wasn’t able to take a full breath, or comply with Steve’s repeated commands for him to keep his eyes open.

“Hey, hey, _look_ at me!” he bellowed. “God-_fucking_-_damn_-it, Buck, don’t you fuckin’ _dare_ do this to me!”

Everything eventually came to a grinding halt, and then, things started to move way too fast again. Someone dragged him out of the van and he would’ve screamed if he’d had the oxygen to spare. He was transferred onto something soft, and then, prodded, poked, and asked questions he couldn’t answer because he was too busy wheezing and spitting up blood.

Another individual shined a light in his eyes and flatly remarked, _“pupils responsive.”_ Another person said, _“possible perforation of the right lung,” _and he thought to himself, _“Again?”_ Then, it was all barked orders and issued statements – remove the bullet; control the bleeding; repair the damage.

Bucky was going under – knew he was being dangled over the fucking grave – but he somehow managed to force his eyes open. When he blindly and wildly batted his hand around, someone grabbed it, and then, a pair of watery, baby-blues appeared in his line of sight. A voice insisted he needed to be taken into surgery immediately, and ordered Steve to let him go, but Bucky couldn’t allow that, because the darkness was closing in fast, and he _needed_ to get it out before it was too late.

He tried to make his heavy tongue and blood-caked lips form the words. He tried to say it once – just one, _fucking_ time – but his body was broken and uncooperative. The only thing Bucky could do was hold on, and he held on as tight as he could for as long as he was able, but all too soon he was forced under, and down into the darkness.

If Bucky had been asked to wager his chances of survival, he wouldn’t have bet on it. Given the deadly accuracy of the shooter and the massive blood loss, he figured the odds just weren’t in his favor, and when he woke up a few days later, he was both extremely shocked and very, very confused.

“M’alive?” he croaked to nobody in particular.

Natasha gasped and all but jumped out of her chair, “You’re awake?”

He tried to ask where he was and what happened, but she suddenly dashed for the door; a few seconds later, Natasha was back by his side, and accompanied by an attending physician who explained what had occurred while he’d been unconscious.

Apparently, Bucky was a lucky man; if the bullet had entered just an inch to the left, he would’ve been dead, but swift action and proximity to the best hospital in France had kept him out of the morgue. From there, he’d spent six hours with a surgeon; he’d flatlined a time or two, but the woman who’d been in charge of putting his sorry ass back together had stubbornly refused to let him die on her table.

Whatever else Bucky was told went in one ear and out the other; it wasn’t his first rodeo, and he knew he could anticipate at least two weeks of disgusting food and awkward bedside manner before he was released. The nurse who arrived a few minutes later gave him some water, went over the rules of the morphine pump, and showed him how to call for aid. After being told he would make a full recovery, Natasha shook hands with the medical staff, and thanked them for everything they’d done. Bucky was exhausted from just listening, but he also nodded in thanks, and as soon as they departed, he depressed the button to release the pain medication.

As soon as he woke and was somewhat coherent again, Natasha explained what happened. Apparently, Mason Dubois’s security detail had viewed Bucky’s unexpected presence in Paris as a threat, and since Steve was considered to be Mason’s boyfriend, that concern extended to him as well. The guard had just been doing his job, but nevertheless, Natasha assured him the matter had been dealt with, and that Dubois would see Bucky was well-compensated for the egregious mistake.

Bucky was in and out of it for about a week, not only because he was exhausted, but because the meds made him drowsy and unable to focus. He barely remembered when Tony, Thor, Wanda, Clint, and Bruce arrived, and save for consistently disappointing meals and lukewarm sponge baths, he really didn’t have the energy or patience for much else.

Over the next few days, they took turns visiting and keeping an eye on him, but the one person Bucky wanted to see had yet to make an appearance. He wasn’t sure of the time when he next opened his eyes, but he knew it was late because the lights had been dimmed, the door was shut, and his newest sentry was snoring and mumbling in his sleep.

Instead of using the cot one of the nurses had brought in, Steve was hunched forward in a chair at Bucky’s bedside. His torso was propped up on the edge of the mattress, and he had his face tucked in the crook of one arm, while the other rested heavily across Bucky’s waist. Though he was desperate for another hit of the mind-numbing, pain-relieving drugs, Bucky didn’t dose himself; instead, he reached out an unsteady hand, and gently stroked Steve’s hair.

The twitching and frantic murmurings stopped on a dime, and the contented sigh he let out made Bucky’s chest constrict even tighter. His vision was blurred and the room was dim, but he could still see Steve so clearly, and even after everything that had happened, he knew – Bucky _knew_ Steve was the one.

Steve was the man he’d set everything aside for and put it all on the line for. It was Steve who he thought of and dreamed about; who he missed, desired, and needed every second of the fucking day; who he wanted to call when he was happy; who he wished to talk to when he was at the end of his rope; who he wanted to laugh with, take on the world with, and be with until he well and truly kicked the bucket.

Bucky stared down at Steve – the man who’d literally saved his life twice – and _finally_ knew what he wanted to say.

The shaky hand he’d been carding through Steve’s hair became rock steady, but before he could act, the handle of the room’s door was turned, and the sound startled Steve out of his slumber. The speed at which he got to his feet and took a fighting stance meant he was being hypervigilant, but then, he seemed to come to his senses, muttered something about the nurse being right on time, and lowered his fists.

Every hour, on the hour – that was the schedule for rounds, and the staff was diligent. They checked his vital sheets, and if Bucky was awake, asked about his pain level, inquired after his comfort, and wondered if he needed assistance getting to the bathroom. The checkup was thorough and efficient, and Steve didn’t take his eyes off the nurse until the examination was complete and they were left alone again.

Steve rubbed his eyes and smothered a yawn, “Natasha will be here to take over and–”

“I was wrong,” Bucky interjected soberly. “And I should’ve never let you go five years ago.”

If Steve had just turned around and left, it wouldn’t have surprised him. If he’d told him to fuck off and never speak to him again, he would’ve deserved it. If Steve had threatened to re-open his chest wound; if he’d said it was too late; that what Bucky had put him through was unforgivable; that he’d already moved on – that, too, would’ve been warranted.

When Steve didn’t say or do anything, Bucky knew he had his answer. He had to accept it, but that didn’t mean he had to face both the pain of his loss and his injury; he reached for the little baton connected to the morphine pump, but Steve was quick, and snatched it right out of his hand.

“You don’t get to say that to me and just check out afterward,” he snapped. “Tell me the _real_ reason you’re in France – and _don’t_ insult me by lying to me.”

Given the lengths Bucky had gone to in order to shore up power and neutralize threats in the past, it was more than fair for Steve to assume he’d flown all the way to Paris on business. The enraged look in his eyes suggested he believed Bucky had found out about Mason Dubois, and that the only reason he’d traveled cross-country was to put a stop to whatever was going on between them. It would’ve been easier had that been the case, but it wasn’t.

The real reason had nothing to do with business, but had everything to do with what Bucky knew to be true and what he felt deep down in his marrow: without Steve, he would never know peace, happiness, or rest, and Bucky’s love for him was more important than his so-called pride.

“You asked me what I wanted,” he choked out raggedly. “And what I _want_ is **_you_**. That’s why I’m here.”

A myriad of expressions flitted across Steve’s face; at first, he appeared to be dumbfounded. Then, he bounced between frustration and sorrow, before he resolutely settled on incredulity and disbelief.

“You know, you had me for a minute there,” Steve asserted as he dropped the morphine switch back down on the bedspread. “But then, I remember who you are, and realize I can’t believe a single word that comes out of your deceitful fucking mouth.”

Bucky was trying to breathe through his torment and think of what to say when Steve suddenly turned, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, and left without a backward glance. His abrupt departure prompted Bucky to toss back the blanket and yank the IV from his arm. He was in no condition to be up and about just yet, but he got to his feet anyway, and shuffled out to the hall.

As soon as his toes passed the threshold, it was all, _“Monsieur Barnes,” _this and, _“Tu dois retourner au lit,”_ that, but Bucky ignored the fuss. A quick glance to the right showed nothing but a long hallway of rooms, but when he looked left, he spotted the exit, and watched as Steve headed brusquely for it.

Foregoing his meds wasn’t the wisest decision Bucky had ever made. Being upright, let alone walking around without assistance, was also rather stupid. Using the wall for balance instead of parking his ass safely in a wheelchair? Definitely not a good idea, either. And shouting Steve’s name at the top of his scarred lungs in the middle of an otherwise respectfully quiet hospital hallway – yeah, that was bad, too.

But on a scale of, _“Meh, screw it,”_ to, _“What the actual fuck am I doing?”_ yelling out a declaration of love to a man who clearly wanted nothing more to do with him was _really_ off the charts.

Steve halted mid-stride and the moment he chose to turn around was the exact second Bucky’s legs decided to give out on him. He folded like a cheap-ass lawn chair, went down hard on his knees, and felt one of his many stitches pop in the process.

The automatic door hissed open and swooshed shut. A doctor was paged over the intercom and an ambulance wailed in the distance. Some teenage girl in the lobby gasped and the woman seated next to her sniffled. A muffled, drawn-out scream, and then, the cries of a newborn. The phone at the front desk rang, but nobody moved or picked it up. When one of the staff eventually tried to aid him, he refused the assistance, and hung his head.

Bucky remained kneeling on the linoleum like a wretched supplicant, but soon, he wasn’t alone in his prostration. Dark-washed denim against bare skin, followed by a pair of sturdy hands that lifted him up and off the cold floor. Bucky was torn open; all raw, vulnerable, and exposed; and nothing more than a complicated, dead weight that bled and wept in Steve’s strong arms.

As he was carried back to his room, he had to bite down on his own fist to stop himself from sobbing. As soon as Steve set him down on the bed, the nurses swarmed, and proceeded to admonish him in both English and French while they cleaned, stitched, bandaged, and doped him back up. Bucky was back beneath the sheets and on the fringes of passing out again when Steve abruptly shook him awake.

“Did you _mean_ it?” he asked gruffly. “Did you _really_ mean what you said?”

He opened his eyes, fixed Steve with a level stare, and allowed both the tears and irrevocable words to tumble and fall. This time, there was no chance of misunderstanding; no room for subterfuge; and no backing out. When he repeated it again for good measure, Steve sighed, leaned over the bed, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth.

Bucky knew Steve’s caress and murmured, _“I love you, too,” _didn’t mean all was forgiven.

But it was a pretty good fucking start.

**Translations:**  
_Putain de boîte de conserve _– Fucking tin-can.  
_Tu dois retourner au lit_ – You must return to bed.


	21. Chapter 20: Evermore

_ **Chapter 20: Evermore** _

_One Month Later…_

The Tuileries and Carousel Gardens, adjacent to the Louvre, between the museum and the Place de la Concorde_ –_ that’s where Mason tried to convince Steve to meet him for the final time.

It was a very public and neutral spot, but there was nothing impersonal about the situation they’d found themselves in. Mason had explained the photographs and made recompense to Bucky, and for the sake of his own sanity, Steve accepted it, and felt the subject was closed. Mason, on the other hand, believed they had unfinished business to discuss, and wanted to talk about it in person.

As Steve stared out at the view of the Eiffel Tower, Mason went on speaking, and pointed out the facts as he saw them. He believed they were good together, the attraction was mutual, and in the short time they’d been in each other’s company, they’d been happy. To him, it was as simple as that, and he couldn’t understand why Steve would choose to give it up so precipitously.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Steve told him. “And you won’t change my mind.” 

The hedged response hung in the air for some time before Mason called out the proverbial elephant in the room. He asked if he was going back to Brooklyn to be with Bucky, and since Steve still respected him enough to be honest, he didn’t lie. Mason was a tenacious man, but he wasn’t ignorant, and he didn’t press for further explanation.

_“Tu retournes chercher ton cœur,” _he bemoaned. “I cannot be angry at you for that.”

The conversation ended as amicably as he could’ve ever hoped for, and when Steve hung up the phone, he was suddenly hit with a mixture of relief and apprehension. He wasn’t just leaving France and what might’ve been; he was returning home to the unknown, and the uncertainty of it all was overwhelming.

He and Bucky and been in a bubble. Two weeks of in-patient observation, two weeks of out-patient recovery, and a final post-op physical to determine whether or not he was well enough to travel. A month of nothing more than one-on-one talking, listening, and getting used to each other all over again.

Steve had nearly forgotten what it was like to be so in tune with someone, and there were moments when he would look at Bucky and feel as if there had been no time, distance, or animosity between them. They had never been nor would they ever be strangers, and their shared experiences had bonded them in profound, inexplicable ways, but they weren’t delusional about the effort they’d have to put into making it work. They’d hurt each other severely, and neither of them could erase that pain or rebuild several years’ worth of trust overnight, but the true test of their mettle would be when they got back to Brooklyn…

A soft knock on the adjoining door brought Steve back to himself. He called out that it was open, and a moment later, the subject of his thoughts stepped out on the balcony.

Bucky excitedly declared the doctors gave him a clean bill of health. Steve nodded at the good news, which was followed up by Bucky stating they could leave as soon as that very evening. He must’ve made a noncommittal sound, because the following morning was also deemed acceptable.

“Or we could stay forever,” he offered nonchalantly. “I could become a Moulin Rouge dancer, and you can, I don’t know – paint nude portraits of Frenchmen with their poodles.”

Steve turned to him and furrowed his brow, “I’m sorry - what?”

Bucky laughed and shook his head, “You worried about going home?”

“Honestly? Yeah, I am.”

The Families and the West Indies were still very sore subjects, but they hadn’t tip-toed around them. Bucky knew Steve didn’t want to fall back into old habits and Steve knew Bucky had to get back to running the business that had been sorely neglected in his absence. Playtime was well and truly over, and pretty soon, choices would need to be made that would impact them both.

“We don’t have to figure it all out right away.”

“You know that’s not true. They’re going to expect–”

“The decision isn’t theirs to make,” Bucky interjected bluntly. “And the seat will remain vacant until you say you want it back or you tell me to fill it.”

“And you think they’ll just accept that?” Steve countered.

“They’ll do what I fucking tell them to do.”

An unwavering declaration and an absolute unwillingness to bend – a terse retort that was both the long and the short of it. Bucky had essentially issued a blank check with no void date, and in the event of a battle, he’d be colonel, cavalry, and cannon fodder. A Boss always shouldered the brunt of the weight, and until Steve decided he wanted to carry a share of it, a debate was pointless.

He let Bucky know that he preferred to return to New York the following day, and once the itinerary was finalized, Bucky declared he reeked of hospital chemicals, and wanted to take a shower. After so many weeks of being a de-facto caretaker, Steve followed on reflex. He entered Bucky’s bedroom on autopilot, headed straight for the bathroom, gathered towels, turned on the water, and put down the bathmat.

Like an old-school English valet, Steve undressed Bucky with impartiality that had been easy to maintain because of the discomfort it caused and the need to be mindful of the wounds. Shoes, socks, jacket, tie, belt, pants, and shirt – practice had made the process efficient, but when Bucky dropped his boxers without warning, and invited him to join him in the shower, the detachment Steve had sensibly developed nearly evaporated.

“Please,” Bucky insisted. 

Steve could’ve ignored the entreaty had he not met Bucky’s eyes and saw it wasn’t sex he was after this time. A blatant, vulnerable expression had bled across his features, and the emotion was too real and raw to put words to. Steve knew just by the set of Bucky’s jaw and the way he held his breath that he didn’t want to be coddled or nursed anymore.

Getting undressed and beneath the spray had been the easy part. The dimness of the heat lamp; the steam within the glass enclosure; the complexity of intimacy; and the simplicity of a familiar and welcomed touch – it was a different kind of nakedness and it exposed them both. 

French, triple-milled soap rinsed down the drain and the Egyptian cotton bath sheets were forgotten on the floor at the foot of the bed. They settled into the double king-sized mattress, beneath a down comforter, and atop of too many damn pillows. Bucky rested on his side, back pressed to his chest, and Steve couldn’t stop himself from placing a protective hand over the still-healing injuries.

Bucky’s contented sigh was what Steve fell asleep to, and when he woke several hours later, darkness had fallen, but the room was subtly glowing. The glimmering light from the Eiffel Tower had created sparkled patterns over the ceiling, walls, and bed, but the splendor wasn’t what held his attention.

Blankets kicked off, flat on his stomach, and face buried in a pillow – a repose that was wholly innocent and utterly tempting. The rich scent of Bucky’s soft skin, the warmth of his body, and the reassuring sound of his every inhale and exhale – he was painfully stunning and completely captivating, and even without asking, Steve could sense he’d also been wakened by the light show.

“Does this happen every night?” Bucky muttered.

Steve made a noise in the affirmative and Bucky let out a huff of annoyance. Bare skin cradled by golden light flexed and moved across the sheets, and he listened and observed as Bucky stretched and groaned beside him. Dark, unkempt hair gave way to a furrowed brow and sleepy eyes, but Steve’s amorous perusal was brought to an end when he abruptly rolled away, grabbed the blanket, and covered himself from shoulders to toes.

Though they were mere inches apart, Bucky’s actions had put a discernable, unspoken distance between them. He’d hidden both his expression and his body, and when the lights of the Tower finally stopped glittering, the room dimmed considerably, and the tension turned palpable.

“I want you,” Steve rasped into the darkness.

“Do you?”

There was no trace of brashness in his voice; if anything, he brooded, as if he were unsure whether or not the passion Steve had for him had somehow lessened. Their journey had left them both shaken and broken, but the one thing Steve knew for sure was that his desire for Bucky had never been lost along the way. He responded to the question not with words, but with deliberate action, and started by pushing the covers down and out of the way. 

Steve roved his palms and tongue purposefully and hungrily from the crook of Bucky’s neck to the base of his spine. When Steve rolled him onto his back, he repeated the process, and reclaimed Bucky’s body. Steve buried his teeth into his abs, coaxed bruises from the flesh of his hipbones, and used his hands and mouth until he beckoned gut-wrenched pleas of mercy that prompted Steve to release him long enough to issue a guttural demand.

“Come for me, Buck,” he ordered lowly. “Come for me right now.”

Bucky’s surrender and his orgasm hadn’t just been a physical release; it seemed to free him from whatever doubts he may have had and revived his confidence. He basked in the afterglow for a few minutes before he got up, rushed to the bathroom, and returned with a bottle of lube and a handful of condoms.

Both were tossed down in the middle of the mattress, and Steve’s heart raced when Bucky crawled back into bed, and kissed him until his brain shorted out. The force and intensity of it sent him falling back against the pillows, and he couldn’t help but moan as Bucky sucked hard on his tongue and stroked his erection from base to tip.

“Nobody else is allowed to have you,” Bucky panted as he issued a sharp bite to his lower lip. “And I will kill anyone who tries to hurt you or take you from me.” 

The possessive assertion was punctuated with a particularly tight squeeze, and the highhandedness continued with hot, open-mouthed licks and nips that blazed a path down his chin, to the base of his throat, and across his chest.

Steve was completely lost in the officious tenor of Bucky’s voice and caress, and by the time he opened the lube and really started working him over, Steve was painfully hard, and hanging on by a thread. Bucky continued to take his time, used his fingers with pitiless and relentless accuracy, and didn’t roll on a condom until he was wrecked and had all but blathered and begged for it.

Situated on his knees, Bucky nudged his thighs wide apart, and guided himself inside until he was seated deep. Bucky intertwined their hands and pinned Steve’s arms above his head. Chest-to-chest; eyes locked and focused; an unhurried rock and roll of hips; heady, potent kisses that left them both breathless and a little dizzy. Steve hovered with Bucky over the precipice – desperate, unafraid, and more than ready and willing to fall – and when he did, Bucky fell right along with him. 

“I love you,” Bucky whispered against the shell of his ear.

Steve closed his eyes and let out a ragged breath, “I love you, too.”

**_Translations:_**  
_Tu retournes chercher ton cœur_ – You’re going back for your heart.


	22. Epilogue: The Bosses

_ **Epilogue: The Bosses** _

_10 Years Later…_

Steve was prodded awake just after dawn by the incessant buzz of his phone. 

Blurry-eyed and annoyed, he lifted his head from the pillow, and reached for his cell. The screen indicated dozens of missed calls and texts, but Steve ignored the litany of messages, and shut the damn thing off.

He fully intended to go back to sleep, but when he reached out for Bucky, he found the opposite side of the bed empty. The sheets were cool, which meant he’d been gone for some time, but the mystery of his whereabouts was solved when the bathroom door opened, and the fresh, familiar scent of his soap and shampoo filled the air.

Sunlight had started to peek through the curtains, and the rays revealed a sight Steve knew he’d never tire of. Bucky’s hair was mussed, and rivulets of water trickled down his chest and abs until they were brought to a stop by the towel wrapped tightly around his waist. The terrycloth didn’t stay in place for long, and once the glory that was Bucky’s nakedness was uncovered, Steve wolf-whistled at him, and continued to explicitly and lewdly vocalize his appreciation as he dried off.

Bucky just laughed and shook his head, “Shut up.” 

“Come ‘ere and make me,” he taunted.

It wasn’t the first time Steve had issued such a challenge, and in the decade since they’d left Paris and returned to Brooklyn, Bucky had never once failed to accept. It took less than twenty minutes for them to rob each other of both reason and words, and by the end of it, they were both breathing hard.

“I think my soul left my body,” Bucky half-chuckled, half-panted. 

“Not bad for an old man, huh?”

“You’ve got awhile to go before you reach Senior Citizen status.”

“You sure you want to put up with me for that long?” Steve wondered.

A sharp nip to his ear – that was Bucky’s silent way of telling Steve the question was absurd because he already knew the answer. The assertive professions of love and the possessive series of kisses that followed only served to reiterate the commitment they’d made seven years prior. 

He and Bucky had merged their lives, hearts, and souls long before they’d ever signed a marriage license, and their matching, white-gold bands were the outward representation of their vows. They had pledged to love and honor each other, promised their happiness would always be put first, and swore they’d be equal partners in all things for the rest of their lives.

“I’ve been thinking about our anniversary,” Steve murmured. “Why don’t we get away for a while? A month warm weather, good food, and a whole lot of you making me shut up. How’s that sound?”

Bucky grinned and nodded in agreement, “Whatever you say, Boss.”

_-fin_


End file.
